


of churches and monasteries (and other holy things)

by lunariaans



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Character Study, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Other, Romance, Slow Burn, War, not really romance but like? it can be interpreted that way later on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 16:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 86,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11971590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunariaans/pseuds/lunariaans
Summary: Python does not believe in the divine goddess Mila and he certainly does not believe in fate or destiny. But the healers in the group do, and she does especially.aka: Python makes an unlikely friend.





	1. a fool's god and a fool's game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oceanics (shadowdance)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowdance/gifts).



> me: yall put silque in the weirdest pairings  
> also me: *proceeds to make this*
> 
> For shadowdance, because we talk a lot about what it would be like for the most unlikely characters to interact, so this is somewhat based on headcanons we came up with for them.

Python does not believe in the divine goddess Mila and he certainly does not believe in fate or destiny.

Especially not with what has happened in the last few years. Droughts, famines, no blessings to be found from the goddess anywhere. How could he believe in something that does not let its followers thrive? How can he believe in a goddess who has abandoned everyone who has ever believed in her?

But the healers in the group do, with their staves and staffs that had been supposedly blessed by the goddess herself.

Clerics, in particular, priestesses if one wanted to be specific. Holy and devout followers of a goddess he has yet to see with his own two eyes. Followers of a goddess that he doesn't believe exists.

The first time he ever really interacts with _her_ though, is on the battlefield. He's wounded and she heals him. Simple as that.

The arrow in his shoulder hurts, and as he rips it out he starts to sway on his feet, fighting to stay up and aware.

"Healer!" he shouts out, hoping someone will hear him, but his voice cracks at the end as he falls backwards onto his bottom. His bow sits in front of him, the bloodied arrow next to him.

And then she appears, short blue hair and pretty white robes and a healing staff in her hands. She doesn't look worried and she doesn't look scared, and Python is relieved; she is an experienced cleric.

She sticks her thumb into his open wound when she approaches and he winces at the noise it makes as she searches for anything he might've missed. She places her palm over it, then touches the back of her hand with her staff and he watches as a soft light comes from it. He can feel his skin slowly stitch itself back together, the blood staying inside his body rather than out, and that's how he prefers it.

As soon as she pulls her hand away he quickly stands up, picking his bow up and rushing back into the fray of battle. He does not think to help her get back to safety—he does not even think of thanking her. He has no time as Death waits for no man.

The first time they ever meet, they do not even speak to each other. And he likes it like that.

 

 

 

On very few occasions during the Deliverance's trek through the continent, they stop in villages to get some rest—and to restock on the basics.

Python loves these few occasions though, because every city and town and village—no matter how big or small—all have a bar. Some serve good alcohol, while others serve liquid that tastes like piss, but he drinks it all anyways.

He convinces his two closest friends in the army, Forsyth and Lukas, to come with him every single time, and he knows one of them hates it while the other doesn't mind.

This occasion they are sitting in the bar of a small town they've stayed in twice already. Lukas sits there stiffly as Forsyth orders drinks and Python takes in the musty smell of the air.

"Python," Lukas speaks up, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Why are we even here? You know drinking doesn't suit you."

"What do you mean?" Python asks as the bartender places his drink down, smiling widely at the three before moving on to other customers.

Forsyth chuckles into his own glass and Python frowns.

"He means you're a lightweight."

"I am not," he grumbles, the smell of the alcohol hitting his nose as he tips the glass towards his lips.

"And you cry when you drink," Lukas chimes in, causing Python to nearly choke on the bitter drink as it slides down his throat.

"I do not!"

"You do. Last time we went out drinking, you got so drunk that you started crying about the first time Lukas called you his friend."

"Yeah and _I_ was the one who had to carry you back to camp."

Python shakes his head, tipping back the glass once more. He did _not_ cry—never has, never will.

"Quit lying."

Lukas mutters something under his breath but Python doesn't care.

He tips back the glass again and again, until he can no longer see straight and his feet are gone and his legs are wobbly as he stands from his seat to make his way back to the bartender, giving her a lopsided smile as he orders two more.

And he drinks more and more, until he vaguely remembers feeling his throat tighten and his eyes sting while his cheeks become wet. He says things that don't make sense so he drinks some more to wash away the insanity, only stopping when he closes his eyes and doesn't see anything for a long time.

 

 

 

When he awakens, the first thing he feels is regret. And a raging headache.

It happens every time he decides to go out drinking but he can't seem to stop. The boys egg him on, and he drinks. Simple as that. 

There's a sweet humming in the air, a song that's familiar yet new dancing across the cool breeze blowing in from somewhere else. He takes a deep breath, the pleasant air hitting his lungs, and the humming continues.

"Shit."

The humming stops at his voice and he sits up suddenly, only to lean over the cot he's lying on, his eyes meeting the floor.

He hears a yelp as he retches and then he feels a hand push his forehead up as something is slid in between his head and the floor. He vomits.

"Oh my," a voice says, and he retches again, feeling awful as he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter.

Once he stops, the hand moves from his forehead to his shoulders, lightly pushing him back down onto the cot. His temples are pounding and his stomach is flipping and he regrets ever touching alcohol. But he knows he will make the same mistakes again.

He opens his eyes and sees someone hovering over him, and through the soft light of the room and the blurry mess his head has given him, he notices that it's her. The blue haired healer. 

"Where am I?" he asks her, finding his throat to feel tight.

She blinks down at him, surprise crossing her face for a short moment.

"The medical tent."

"Medical tent?" She nods. He frowns. "How'd I get here?"

"I found you."

And that's all she says as she turns away from him, disappearing from his view and leaving him to watch the green canvas ceiling.

He tries to follow her with his eyes but the movement hurts his head too much as it brings another round of dry heaving, the excessive gagging making his abdomen hurt. 

He can hear the movement and swishing of the fabric of her robes as she does other things throughout the tent.

"If you're going to throw up again, I left a bucket next to your bed for you. Please use it."

He's too busy trying to keep it down to acknowledge her. He's miserable and he's starting to sweat. He gives in and leans over the side of the cot once more, the sound of it awful.

He knows very well that mistakes are never learned from, so he makes the same ones again.

Over and over.

The second time he wakes up in the medical tent, he can barely recall the night before. Stumbling out of a bar, Forsyth carrying him over his shoulder, then the smell of dirt and grass and then nothing.

When he opens his eyes now, he can hear that sweet humming again, though it's a different song this time. He can feel his stomach flop and he groans as he reflexively pushes himself off his back and his head over the side of the cot, retching like he normally does.

The humming stops like it did before.

He hears her move across the tent and then she is next to him, pushing him onto his back. She looks down at him with an emotion that resembles disgust. He feels his face instinctively wince.

"You again," he says, cracking a smile, but she does not look amused—though she doesn't look upset either. Her face remains nearly neutral. "Is this the medical tent?"

"Yes."

"Found me again?"

She nods. "Your friends seem to like dropping you off wherever they feel like when you return to camp after drinking."

He sighs, considering what the boys said about him being a lightweight to maybe be true. And considering beating them senseless for abandoning him once they got to camp.

She moves away from his view for a moment, only to reappear with a glass of water, carefully placing it on the crate next to his cot.

"It's important to rehydrate yourself after doing something like that. It'll make you feel better if you drink some water."

He waits until she turns her back away from him to take the glass, the water nearly burning his throat on the way down.

The humming starts again and he rolls over once more, regret becoming a familiar friend.

 

 

 

Healers and archers are often placed behind the front lines, away and out of danger. Python doesn't really care; as long as he gets his job done, he is fine.

The sounds of screams and cries of pain often fill the air on the battle field and today is no different. Blood leaves a stench that covers everything for weeks to come; it's so tangible, he can almost taste the cruel metallic tang of it.

So is the way of war. The sight, the smell, the taste of blood, red and sticky but so full of life. The enemy begging for forgiveness, begging for mercy. Python doesn't grant any.

His job as an archer is to make sure the enemy doesn't get too close to the healers and mages, and so he does.

Arrow after arrow, he plunges them into the flesh of his enemies, looking for every little opening between the chinks of their armor, proving to himself once again that no one is invincible.

He hears a shriek from behind him, and he whips around, bow at the ready. There he sees one of the villagers from Ram, the girl that came with Alm, pinned against the ground, a madman with an axe poised above his head and ready to strike. He watches as she throws her arms up in front of her face, turning her head to the side, waiting for the inevitable.

Python releases his arrow and it flies through the air, hitting its mark in the side of the neck. It is a fatal blow, and he doesn't mind the way blood pours down his neck, dripping on to the girl below him.

The girl whimpers as the man slumps off of her, his axe clanging to the ground dangerously close to her head. Python watches her as she heaves, hand to her chest, then stands back up as if nothing had happened. She spots him, then bows curtly before running off to the other soldiers falling quickly.

It is his job to protect those around him and so he does. There is nothing more to it.

Yet he has trouble protecting himself as he hears the twang of a bow releasing an arrow far too late; the next moment he feels it entering his back, right beneath his shoulder blade. He cries out in pain, much to his dismay, yet he finds it in him to pull an arrow from his quiver and blindly fire back into the direction it came. He can tell from the distant cry that it has hit its mark.

He falls forward to his knees, trying to grasp for the shaft of the arrow, but is unable to reach it without tearing the skin around the wound open further. He grits his teeth and stands back up; he will have to continue with it until the battle is over.

But then he feels a small hand placed atop his shoulder and his body instantly freezes. He feels the small hand squeeze his shoulder, the other grasping the arrow in his back, then a foot against the back of his knee, causing him to fall down.

"Hold still," he hears her say, and with a strong tug, the arrow is pulled from his back with a sickening slosh and he can feel blood slowly trickling down, surely staining his tunic. 

His vision blurs as his hands reach for the ground, bracing himself for the inevitable collapse. It never comes though as he then feels the small hand placed over his wound, the shaft of a healing rod resting against his back, then the soft and warm feeling of the flesh knitting back together. She removes it quickly afterwards, and his head is spinning from the magic.

He grinds his teeth as he whips his head around, only to stop and see that it is the blue haired healer standing there, the arrow held tightly in her red and bloody hands. The front of her holy robes are smeared with blood, and he looks her up and down before standing back up himself. She stares at him with wide eyes and an unwavering gaze, causing him to lose his nerve for just a moment.

"You—" he says, but it is all he can say.

She knits her eyebrows together at his voice, but he doesn't have time to respond as he remembers his place on the battle field. He does not have time to leisurely spend on speaking to others. He quickly picks his bow back up, and places his hand out flat in front of her.

She gives him a confused look, but places the arrow in his hand anyways, the blood on hers already drying and cracking.

He walks away from her quickly, moving on to more savage killers, ready to take aim and plunge the arrow tainted with his own blood back into the enemy.

 

 

 

The third and fourth time he wakes up in the medical tent after a night of drinking, she doesn't speak to him. Instead, she simply places the bucket next to his cot and the glass of water on the crate and that is all she does. He doesn't try to speak to her either, just wanting to get rid of his headache as fast as he can and get back to doing what needed to be done.

He studies her carefully as she moves about the tent though, watching her nimble fingers and pale hands carefully wind bandages up. He takes note of how she hums most of the time he is in there, and how she often blows her bangs out of her eyes as she arranges the healing rods in the corner of the room. He watches her work and that is all he does.

The fifth time he wakes up though, as soon as he is finished puking, she comes to stand beside his cot.

"Sir Python," she says calmly, and he wonders how she knows who he is.

He frowns up at her. "Sir?"

Her face briefly shows surprise but it quickly vanishes as she places his glass of water next to him.

"Is that not your title? You are a knight in the Deliverance, are you not?"

"Well, I guess...to some degree, I am." He doesn't like formal titles, nor did he think he deserved any. He wasn't an official knight to say the least.

He was an archer, not some silly soldier on a horse.

"Well, Sir Python," she begins again. "I think you should stop drinking."

He pauses mid-sip. Who was she to request something like that?

"And why is that?"

"I do not appreciate having to clean your mess up after you have left, and I do not appreciate how your friends have started to drop you off here directly."

He sits up, his frown deepening. He would have to have a word with Forsyth once he was feeling better.

"Usually when I find you, you are already passed out. But when they bring you here, you are crying."

At that, he feels his face heat up and his blood start boiling. Oh yes, he would have _many_ words with Forsyth.

"Crying?" he asks, but his voice is meek.

She nods and hums in reply.

"What about?"

"Well," she says, directing her eyes towards the floor of the tent. Her fingers fidget nervously. "You cried to me once about when you were twelve, and you fell back onto your quiver, and how it left a bruise... _there_ for an entire week."

His face feels as if it's on fire.

"Did I...?" He wants to disappear beneath the covers; he wants the earth to swallow him up.

She nods. "It is...unsettling, to say the least. I'm not sure what to do, and you make such a ruckus that I think the whole camp can hear you."

He just about wants to die. He curses under his breath.

"I had to tell Sir Clive that you were just having bad night terrors, and I was trying to help you with them."

He wants to crawl into the ground and die. Sir Clive! Of all people!

He meets her eyes when she says this though, and he can see something peculiar hiding behind them.

"You don't have to cover for me."

"Do you have another job waiting for you?" she asks.

"This _is_ my job."

"You will not have it long if you keep this up."

He nearly lets out a bewildered breath of air, realization setting in. The healer was covering for him, lying for him, so he would not be kicked from the Deliverance, losing all nobility and standing within the small army. She lies so he will not lose the chance to work with Forsyth for someone like Sir Clive for a long period of time. 

He frowns up at her; she did not know him. She had no reason to do this for him. He does not need her pity nor her help.

She knits her eyebrows together in confusion at his curious expression.

"Aren't you a priestess of Mila?"

"Just a simple cleric, technically."

He raises a brow.

"Isn't it bad for you to _lie?_ " he asks her, and he feels the strange urge to laugh, though he suppresses it.

"It is my duty to help those who are in need," she answers, as if it were obvious. "That is the way of our divine goddess." 

And after she says that, she turns away from the cot once more, moving to do her own thing. He frowns at her back, burns holes into the holy white robes, and his stomach flips and his head aches once again as the dry heaving comes back and he leans over the side of the cot.

 

 

 

"Her name is Lady Silque."

Python watches Lukas as he pulls on his dented red armor, noting the way one dent in particular warps the metal so bad that it keeps the chest plate from fitting right.

"'Lady?' She some sort of noble?"

Lukas shakes his head as he unfastens the plate from his chest, trying to push the dent out from the backside of it.

"I don't think she is of noble birth, but I do believe that what she does is noble enough to deserve such a title."

Python rolls his eyes. Lukas was the type to consider anyone who has done good for the Deliverance as someone deserving noble status. It didn't make sense, but Python didn't care enough to berate him for it. If the man wanted to call a villager a Lady, then let him; hell, the leader of their rebel army was a mere farm boy himself, making Lukas one of the very first to start calling him Sir.

"She has saved me, and not to mention plenty others, numerous times on the battlefield. She is an invaluable member to the Deliverance, and her intentions to help us are as pure as they come," he says with a sigh, dropping his chest plate to the ground with a satisfying clank. "She's also saved you a few times, has she not?"

"I don't go down so easily."

"Probably because she is there," Lukas jokes, raising a brow at the way his lips turn down into a frown. "She's also the one that takes care of you when you are hungover."

Python feels his face heat up.

"Well she wouldn't have to if some people didn't abandon me the moment we got back to camp."

"You're too much to handle sometimes. The way you cry and whatnot."

"I do not—"

"You cannot deny how valuable she is to our cause," he interrupts. "Even if she is not as physically strong as the rest of us, her might and spirit make up for it."

Python frowns once again as he watches Lukas take off his gloves, throwing them onto the ground next to the chest piece.

It was true, she was one of the most valuable people to have around. When provisions were low and battles were tough, it was always her that the soldiers could count on to heal them. Many were amazed by her and the holy aura she carried with her. Maybe it was because she was a priestess to Mila, or maybe it was just the way she carried herself, but anyone would be a fool to deny that the sight of her holy white robes and the sound of her gentle yet firm voice was a comforting thought to behold on the battlefield—especially when one was so close to death.

"You seem lost in thought."

Looking up, Python finds himself biting the inside of his cheek.

"How'd you get her to join the Deliverance?" he asks instead. "You make her feel so sorry for us that she just had to come along and help these poor souls?"

Lukas shoots him a glare before tugging at the leather straps of his pauldrons.  

"We found her in a shrine taken over by bandits," he answers solemnly. "She had been kidnapped and held there for several days—maybe even weeks—before we got there. She asked that we take her along."

Some curious emotion settles in to Python's mind as he hears that. An emotion he hasn't felt for a while.

"She didn't speak much to me about her time in the shrine, but I fear worse may have befallen her during that time than a simple kidnapping."

The room is silent for a moment, save for the sound of Lukas's clothes rustling as he squats before his armor. Images flash in Python's mind; he knew what brigands and thieves did with their finer treasures. To be sold off to some other creep, or to be kept for their own sick entertainment.

"You know why they take her?"

Lukas shakes his head, not meeting his eyes before saying, "She is young and beautiful. What more reason do filthy brigands like those need?"

He has to agree. But filthy brigands was an understatement; Python believed that no words in the world could truly describe just how disgusting and evil someone had to be to do something like that.

"Even if she is not a true Lady, you must treat her with the utmost respect," he says, looking up to meet Python's eyes. "I know you don't care much, but please remember, you are an added burden to her  list."

Python feels his eyebrows scrunch together involuntarily. An added burden?

"Maybe I wouldn't be if you didn't dump me off on her," he says harshly, and Lukas looks down knowingly, guiltily. 

"Perhaps you are right."

Neither speak for a long while after that as Lukas begins to try and bang the dent out with the heel of his boot.

 _Clang, clang, clang_. Python grows annoyed with every connecting sound.

Finally, he loses his patience, standing abruptly and making his way to the exit, not before turning to get the final word in.

"Give it up," he says, nodding to the armor. "You're gonna have to give it to the smithy next time we're in town."

And with the annoyed look on Lukas's face, Python turns on his heel and walks out, the sound of the clangs no longer reaching his ears.

 

 

 

On the march to their next location, Python finds himself glaring at the back of her head—but he doesn't know why.

Maybe it's the fact that she is not like Clair, who had complained for the last mile that her Pegasus was getting dirty, and for the next mile would likely complain about how it was her boots that were now dirty. Or maybe it's because she is not like Faye, who sticks close to Alm's side and acts as if nothing else exists in the world when there was, in fact, so much more to life than a simple teenage boy.

Maybe it is because she believes in a goddess who has abandoned her people, her soft prayers that she sings to herself in the medical tent not going unnoticed by him. Maybe it is because she believes in something so earnestly and wholeheartedly, blinded by a false sense of hope that the Mother would return to save her people.

Maybe it is the fact that she does not act as he has expected her to, or maybe he just simply does not like her.

She was _too_ likable—maybe that was the problem.

Perhaps he is being too harsh. It was true that she has done an incredible service to their small army, saving the lives of many of his companions, his included. But ever since his talk with Lukas—he had only wanted to know her name—just the mere thought of her provokes his ire.

And he doesn't know why.

"Lady Silque," Forsyth calls out to her suddenly, and Python watches as her back stiffens for a moment before turning her head towards the sound.

Forsyth leaves Python's side to join hers, falling in to step with her controlled pace. He smiles brightly down at her, so wide that it reaches his eyes, and Python narrows his own at the knight.

Python knows his best friend better than anyone. And he knows that although the smile seems genuine enough, it is also fake.

 _He'll ask a favor from her_ , he muses, cracking his own small smile. _The ladies never could resist that Forsyth eye smile. It worked on even the stiffest girls back home._

Forsyth never meant any harm or malcontent by it—the smile truly was genuine, deep down—but Python had convinced him long ago that favors could be pulled in with an even bigger one.

"Sir Forsyth," she greets him, bowing her head quickly. "Is there something you need?"

He nods his head, holding up one of his hands to show her a bright red mark running across his palm. "I think I got a rope burn."

Her eyes widen phenomenally, looking at his hand then back at him, her mouth opening slightly.

"How did this happen?" she asks, gingerly taking his hand into her own, inspecting the palm closely. "You've rubbed several layers of skin off."

He chuckles slightly and she looks up at him confused.

"Tried to tie a few boxes of supplies off, but a certain someone didn't have a good enough grip on it," he explains, and Python wants to kick him in the back of his knees. That was certainly the last time he offered to help his dear old friend out. "Rope slipped right through my hand."

"Only one?"

"I thought I had it under control."

She frowns as she inspects his hand again, and Python watches, wanting to laugh when she rubs a thumb near the edge of the burn, making Forsyth wince.

"Sir Forsyth, when did this happen? We've been walking for nearly two hours now."

He smiles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with his unscathed hand.

"Right before we started marching. It didn't hurt for a while, but now it's starting to sting. I can't even wear my glove on this hand."

"You should have told me sooner," she chides, dropping his hand to reach into a satchel at her side. "I think I may have a salve for this."

He lifts his hand to inspect it again, sucking in air through his teeth—most likely at the thought of her rubbing some ointment on it.

"Well, can't you just—you know," he gestures with his head, loose pieces of his green hair falling in his face. " _Heal_ it?"

Python notices that she looks worried, though only for a second. She already has the small jar of salve in her hands, her fingers toying with the lid restlessly.

"Well I—"

"It's fine if you can't," he interrupts her, giving her that eye smile once more, and Python watches closer than ever now. "I know it's such a minor thing."

He watches her hesitate for a moment, looking as if she wants to say something, but the words must fall flat as she places the salve back in to her satchel.

"I suppose I could," she says, her eyes turning downward. "You won't have a scar this way."

Python's amazed; the smile had worked once again even after all of this time!

"You must promise to be more careful next time, though."

"Oh, I will!" he promises.

And with that she takes his hand once again, this time pressing her palm against his and intertwining their fingers. Forsyth's face twists with the pain of the contact, but he doesn't get the chance to complain as she raises two fingers to rest below her chin, her mouth moving silently as she casts her most used spell.

Her face momentarily winces as a soft light envelopes their hands, and then, just as quick as it had come, it fades and she lets go and Forsyth inspects his newly mended hand. Clean and free from the ugly white flesh that a scar would've left, he admires it, twisting it every which way.

He smiles brightly at her once more, but this time Python knows it is the most genuine of his. She offers him her own small smile.

Forsyth bows as he walks, making him look goofier than normal. He suddenly takes her hand and brings it up to his lips once he stands, making her eyes grow just a little wider, and making Python raise his eyebrows.

If there is one thing about the knight lifestyle that he knows his best friend enjoys, it is the false formalities and lame chivalrous manners that are included. He laughs to himself. Most of it was childish dreams trying to come to fruition, some of it was just to impress Sir Clive. _What a tool._

"Many thanks, my lady," he says, releasing her hand. "You saved me once again."

And with that Forsyth slows his pace to fall back in to step with Python, the sound of giggles coming from behind them. _Clair and those damn village kids_.

"Ya know," he speaks up, slapping his friend on the back. "You look like a real _ass_ when you do things like that."

Forsyth frowns at him yet he rolls his eyes. "You could learn to have a little more respect for those around you."

"And _you_ could learn not to be so uptight and formal."

Forsyth gives him a pointed look before turning his attention back to the trail in front of them, letting Python know that he has won this round.

As silence falls between them, Python tries focusing on their surroundings, on the dirt trail and on the trees that line it. He tries focusing on the blue sky and the sound of their footfalls disrupting the ground beneath them, but his eyes always wander back to _her_. 

She's holding her hands in front of her, out of sight, and she keeps to herself, not talking much to those around her. Python starts to wonder if she has any friends within the army, but then he remembers that a war is no place for such luxuries. To be close with too many people only meant more heartbreak than necessary in the end. And maybe she knew that.

Her head turns slightly to the side, and even from his spot behind her, he can tell she looks more tired than before. He doubts they'll rest soon. 

 _Too nice and too likable_. That had to be it.

 

 

 

She said she needed more bandages. That's what she had told him.

Or—at least—that is what she had told Lukas, who in turn told Python and Forsyth.

"Sir Clive has entrusted you two to go off to town and get the healer more supplies," he tells them, handing Forsyth a bag of silver marks. He gives a pointed look to Python. "Do not come back drunk."

As soon as Lukas turns around to return to his duties, Python sticks out his tongue, making the green haired knight laugh.

"Oh, Python," he says wistfully, swinging the coin purse and hitting his other hand with it. The money rattles around inside with each hit. "You never change do you?"

"Why change if there's nothing wrong with me?" he asks, and that causes his companion to chuckle once more.

In the town's square, Python is surprised by how many stalls line the cobblestone street. Fabrics and jewelry and silverware and street food! Gods, how he longed for some street food, the mere sight of it making his stomach grumble. He could only handle so much of their war rations; stale bread and dried meat were not the most savory things to eat, and actual food that held flavor was hard to come by as it is already, what with Mila ignoring her people.

"Bandages," Forsyth reminds him simply. He reluctantly follows.

Forsyth makes the fabric dealer cut yards upon yards of the pure white gauze, but Python knows it will soon be tainted with the deep hues of red.

Blood.

His thoughts wander to the healer.

He wonders how much blood she's seen in her life. How much she has gotten on her hands. How much of it was her own—how much of it wasn't?

How many times someone's life has slipped through her delicate fingers. Has that ever happened to her?

He can't imagine the heartbreaking look on her face if that were to happen. The guilt she must feel.

What compelled someone to want to be a healer when they know that not everyone can be saved? Maybe something had happened to her to make her want to help people, to heal and comfort them in their darkest time. Or maybe, she felt like she had let someone down, unable to save what mattered the most. To many in the army, she is their salvation, their savior; to others, she is their reaper.

So many possible motives to become a healer, so many sincere and pure hearted reasons, he thinks any of them would've fit her.

She seemed young and sweet, but he's seen her covered in blood too many times, that same exhausted look painting her face after every battle. He almost feels...bad?

Pity is a feeling for fools, he reminds himself. To feel sorry for others was almost as bad as feeling sorry for oneself. If this was her lot in life, then she should take what has been given with no qualms or complaints. He could not control what life gave her.

But is that not exactly what she did? He has never heard her once complain or whine about this war and all the work she must do. She has never complained about the fighting or the stench of blood—or how it stains her holy robes. She has never  openly complained about having to take care of him when he comes back to camp drunk, or about how he was an added burden.

An added burden. Was he truly just another frivolous item placed onto her already heavy load? He doesn't really know nor does he care.

Python finds himself in front of a pastry cart, his grumbling stomach waking him from his dark thoughts. He's amazed and bewildered—just where was this town finding all of these hard to come by resources? He frowns down at the tiny decorated cakes and cookies though, just the thought of sticking something so sweet into his mouth making his stomach turn.

Forsyth appears next to him with the bag full of bandages, further breaking his scanty thoughts. He raises a brow, looking between the cart and his friend and then he opens his mouth, but Python beats him to it by speaking first.

"Do you think she likes sweets?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk why but i'm feeling nervous as i'm about to press the post button. I think this is the most excited I've been to post and write a story since when I first started on ao3, although it will be a little harder for me to upload this and my tobin/faye fic often because I just started my first semester of college (gross), so I'm gonna try to keep this fic to 3 chapters, though I will try to make them longer. I know it's an odd pair to post about, and there isn't really ROMANCE romance in it, but I'm excited to try new things and work on my style with this story, so I hope you give it a chance and read it till the end. Thank you!!


	2. innocence and the loss of it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well, without you, who's gonna save the rest of us? You're important to us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally got this chapter done and it's a bit longer than the last chapter as promised (almost a full 22 pages in word lol) and it looks like this fic WILL be longer than 3 chapters. I'm worried if this one is a bit OOC, but I hope you'll like it.

Python finds himself following her to the bank of a small river near where they had set up camp one day.

They traverse through a thick forest—no path for the average wanderer to travel down—where she has to use a healing rod to push the low hanging branches of trees and the brush aside, leading him towards the water.

In his hands he carries a wooden bucket— _his_ wooden bucket as deemed by the healer. The bucket she always seemed to place next to his cot in the medical tent; the bucket that made him regret ever drinking.

"Hey," he calls out to her, his voice cutting through the noises of the forest. "Er, Lady Silque."

She turns her head to the side but doesn't stop walking. She too has a bucket in her arms, though hers is filled with dirty sheets and linens rather than regrets.

"How much longer till the river?" he asks her, and she turns her head back to the front.

"Nearly there," she says simply. "It's more of a creek than a river though."

He frowns at her response.

The only reason he was following her like this was because he had made a deal with her.

The week before, she had threatened to kick him out of the med tent, to stop letting his friends bring him to her. Worst of all, she even mentioned bringing something up to Sir Clive.

He had immediately said no to that. Maybe it was because he was half awake with a headache nearing almost unbearable, but he soon found himself nearly begging her to understand where he was coming from. Drinking helped, in a way that she couldn't and wouldn't be able to understand. Or at least that's how he felt.

He almost felt bad for trying to guilt trip her into letting him stay there. It wasn't her job to take care of a man with a hangover. It wasn't her job to lie for him so he wouldn't be discharged. She was a healer, whose sole purpose for being in their little army was to save them from dying. Nothing less, nothing more. She probably thinks lowly of him, but he doesn't think he really cares.

But Python made things harder for her. So he made a deal.

He almost runs into her when she comes to a stop in front of him, the sound of the small river in the woods finally reaching his ears. She stoops low, setting her bucket and the healing rod beside her as she tucks her legs beneath her, sitting back on her feet and moving to pull the first item from it.

She looks up at him, her hand stopping inches above the cloth beside her, and then she speaks.

"Help me with these first," she tells him and then, pointing past him, she says, "Place your bucket next to that tree, then wash it out downstream when we're finished."

He grunts in response as he does what she says, and soon he finds himself crouching next to her, his ankles popping as he lowers himself to the ground. He rolls up his sleeves to the elbows and waits quietly for her instructions.

She hands him a sheet and he immediately dunks it into the water, hoping to get the chore over with quickly. The cold hits him as his hands are submerged and he watches as the sheet moves with the current, flowing and shifting with each ripple beneath the surface.

"You do know how to wash linens don't you?" she asks him, and he looks over to see her with an eyebrow raised but there is amusement written plainly on her face.

He frowns at her, feeling more and more that she must think him a fool.

"Yes."

"Then you know that you don't just drown the linens like that?"

He glances at the sheet in his hand, still in the water, then pulls it back out quickly, somewhat annoyed. Water drips onto the dirt below him, the corners of the sheet falling into the newly made mud.

She is silent for a moment and then—she laughs, short and light. Python feels his eyebrows rise at the gesture; he's used to the exhausted looks and near neutral expression from the healer, but then she surprises him even further when she smiles at him.

"Let me show you," she says, a hint of that laugh still somewhere in her voice. She begins rolling up her sleeves, "These aren't like regular clothes, they're for the medical tent so they have to be washed more carefully. If they're not, then the wounded risk infection."

Python can't even make himself utter the word 'okay'; instead, he simply watches her as she pulls another sheet from the bucket. He watches her carefully, and is somewhat bewildered at the way she so earnestly explains things to him, occasionally looking over at him as she speaks with that smile. By the time she is done he is so lost in confusing thoughts that it takes him a moment to realize that she's called his name.

"Sir Python," she says, and her smile has fallen a bit, only to be replaced by a raised brow. "Were you listening?"

"Yes."

"Then do you think you can wash them correctly this time?"

The surprise fades away as he frowns at her once more, taking his dirty sheet and doing it exactly as she had done. She watches him closely, occasionally stopping him so that she can correct him, and when she has deemed that it is clean enough, she hands him another.

It's in the middle of his fourth sheet does he notice her pull something out of the bucket that is white and blue. He looks for longer than he should and that's when he sees the long and wide arcs of red staining that white.

For the first time that day he notices that she's not wearing her holy robes; instead she's wearing something closer to an overly modest milkmaid's dress, the sleeves white and the skirts blue.

He watches her dunk the robes into the water like he had done with the first sheet. She holds it underwater as she scrubs hard, rubbing the fabric against itself to try and rid the blood left from war's victims, but it only serves to carry nothing more than a few drops of red downstream.

After a moment she stops and sighs, pulling the robes from the water and placing them in the dirt. She rubs at her eyes with the back of her hands, and then looks at him. He feels his back straighten at the accidental eye contact, and he feels foolish for having been caught.

"I fear I may have to throw this one out," she says with another sigh, looking at them as if she's just lost a friend. 

"Won't that be a problem?" he asks, quickly turning his attention back to the sheet in his hands. He's not sure why he's even bothered to speak, but when she doesn't answer he continues, "I mean, aren't you supposed to wear them all the time or something?"

"Normally, I suppose I would, but Faye said she would mend the other when she has the time. I had more at the priory on Novis, but I didn't have to really worry about getting blood on them there."

He nearly laughs at the statement. She may be an excellent healer, but that alone wasn't enough to tell him that she should be here. A woman of the cloth, so far from her small island priory with blood on her hands and stained to her robes, she was far out of her element.

"So you're allowed to wear other things then. The divine goddess won't strike you down if you do?"

He's joking but the corners of her mouth begin to tip down a bit as she pulls a sheet from the bucket. He wonders if she's begun to regret leading him here, but then again, it was her idea.

"If you don't have to wear your robes all the time, then why do you still got your headdress on?"

He watches from the corner of his eye as she pulls a hand from the water, subconsciously touching the edges of the cloth hanging from her head. It's only when she drops her hand does he notice the edges are frayed and the corners are dirty.

She puts her hand back in the water, working at the sheet. She falls silent for a few seconds before she speaks again, though she doesn't look at him when she does, her eyes wide and on the water.

"It's religious wear. It's more for modesty than anything else."

"Modesty?" he asks flatly. _What good does modesty do for you in a war_ , he wants to ask her, but he doesn't.

She looks almost embarrassed at him asking, but she nods her head, pressing her lips into a thin line. _So she's a modest girl._

"I don't see how—"

She stops him before he can finish, pulling the sheet from the water and placing it with the others.

"I know it won't make much sense to _you_ ," she says suddenly. "But it is just the way things are. Everything has a purpose, Sir Python, and I adhere to that purpose."

He's almost taken aback by her words and the way she's turned the mood around almost instantly. Then again, thinking back on it, it was he who had soured the mood. He always had a knack for doing that, yet he's never been able to shake the habit. He keeps quiet as he reaches for another sheet.

She grabs his wrist as his finger graze the cloth and he almost hisses at the touch from the shock of her cold hand more than anything. He looks at her, and she looks at him with an intensity much too strong for something as simple as laundry, and that's when he knows that she's already fed up with him.

"You can go downstream to wash your bucket now," she says, releasing his wrist. "After that you're free to leave."

She's surprised him far too many times in one day alone. He's not sure why but something about what she's said agitates him. He feels wronged and he almost feels _bad_ —for himself or for her, he isn't really sure. He nearly scoffs in her face, but instead he stands up and turns downstream.

"Aye, aye, Captain," is all he says, and he can't help but want to throw his bucket into the river and hope that it's deep enough to carry it somewhere far away. 

She frowns at him, that smile from earlier long gone now. He hears a splash and turns his head to see that she has dunked the robes in once again. She scrubs and scrubs, but even he knows that a stain like blood never really goes away.

 

 

 

It's during dinner one night that he notices that she's rarely there for it.

He couldn't really tell anyone why if they asked, but he finds himself looking for her through the crowd of soldiers in the dining tent.

"What are you looking for?" he hears Lukas say, and he groans when he sees him sit across from him, his plate filled with war rations. "Or maybe I should ask whom?"

"You've got a sudden appetite for gossip now, don't you?" he asks him, raising a brow. "Why don't you mind your own business, eh?"

Lukas chuckles, shaking his head as he begins to pick apart the nearly stale bread. "It does not feel good to have your personal life pried into, does it?"

Python wants to stand up and leave, but he knows if he does it will only serve to fill that redhead's mind full of all sorts of questions and thoughts that surely couldn't be good. _Python is unfriendly, Python doesn't respect his fellow soldiers, Python doesn't take his duties seriously;_ he imagines all of those have been said by one person or another at some point. He knows Lukas wouldn't complain about him to superior officers, but he does know that Lukas _is_ a superior officer and would most likely receive the complaints himself, if he didn't already. Lukas didn't need anyone to tell him all of this though.

"I'm only joking, Python," he says, as if he's read his thoughts. "I apologize if you did not appreciate it."

Lukas and joking never went together, and even if the he thought they did, the lack of response he usually got should've been enough to tell him otherwise.

But before Python can even open his mouth to reply, he feels the wooden bench he's sitting on shift beneath the weight as a body places themselves on it. He looks to his left to see his dear old friend Forsyth—and so he groans again.

"Hello, Forsyth," Lukas greets him, and Forsyth smiles. "Where have you been all day?"

"I was busy running around doing inventory for Sir Clive," he replies cheerily.

"Inventory?" Python asks.

Forsyth nods, green bangs falling into his eyes. "Just got finished. Lady Silque was the last to give me her checklist, and it looks like we're due for another trip into town soon."

"Count me out."

He sees Forsyth frown out of the corner of his eye and then he sees him open his mouth, but Lukas cuts him off.

"You two _did_ make unnecessary purchases last time."

"It was Python!"

"Perhaps it would be best to send someone else."

"Who're you gonna send instead?" Python asks, amused. "Surely your kids would do something worse than us buying _cookies_."

Lukas looks uneasily at his bread for a moment, and he knows that Python is right. Two of them especially liked to mess around when they were together, and they drove Python insane. He didn't know how Lukas traveled with _five_ of them for more than three days by himself. The man was sent out to bring back the legendary knight, Sir Mycen, and ended up back in the Deliverance hideout with six people that were definitely _not_ him.

"I suppose I could always send Faye out to get them," he says, already frowning at the thought.

"You're gonna send a little girl all by herself out there?"

Lukas frowns at the plate in front of him. "Well...I suppose not."

After a moment, he sighs in resignation. "We will figure it out later. How much longer until she absolutely needs it though?"

Forsyth looks up from his food. "Next town we reach would be best."

Lukas hums in response, taking another bite out of the stale bread. For several minutes they are silent, each trying to choke down their own food, but then Lukas speaks up again.

"Why _did_ you two buy cookies? You're always complaining about the sweets the kids bring around. It's unlike you."

"He got them for Lady Silque," Forsyth says before Python can lie.

"Oh?"

He exchanges an angry glance with the green haired knight, promising with his eyes that if it weren't for Lukas being there, he might've punched him.

Lukas seems to think for a moment, a thousand thoughts running through his mind and across his face until he finally settles on something that Python knows is bad. _Disappointment_.

Python knows he's about to be scolded for some trivial reason or another.

"Python, you know that—" 

He can't find it in himself to even try and finish his dinner, so before the scolding can start, he stands up and begins to walk away. Both begin to call his name, telling him to sit back down, but Python wants none of it, whatever _it_ is. Spending money on frivolous things? Causing her even more problems? If he can leave the tent fast enough, then Lukas will just have to scold him the next day for walking away from his problems.

 

 

 

Python can remember pinning his mother's wooden clothes pins onto Forsyth's nose and cheeks as he slept when they were younger. The green haired boy would howl in pain, and once he realized what was going on, he would chase after Python, until he had him pinned to the floor with the clothes pins in his hands and threats to use them on his eyes.

It's a fond memory that makes Python chuckle every time he thinks of it, but now, with wooden clothes pins in his hands and actual sheets instead of Forsyth, he realizes that so much has changed from when they were kids.

He had come in to help her again, just like she had asked. He had watched her silently as she made her own clothes line within the medical tent, tying a rope from one end to the other and cutting through the middle, dividing the space. They had just gotten back from another trip to the river, but the clouds outside seemed just threatening enough to her to warrant them hanging linens up to dry _inside_ the medical tent. He didn't understand why it mattered; they'd been in a drought for years already, rainstorms so far and few that they were nearly a myth now.

It seemed that the closer they got to the border of Rigel, the more worrisome the weather became to her. They had just left the Zofian Castle and its capital only a few days before, and now they were camped out behind the mountains north of the capital. The path to the east was completely blocked, a scout had reported, so their only choice was to start traveling west to Desaix's fortress where Lady Mathilda was supposedly being held as prisoner.

It had been weeks since Lady Mathilda's disappearance, and the chances of her still being alive up until this point had been slim. But rumor had spread throughout the kingdom that she _was_ still alive, and that her death was inevitable. An execution had been scheduled for the first week of the coming month. There wasn't much time left to save her—if these rumors were in fact true.

It was hard for him to believe that the founder of their little liberation army, the woman who had been held as a most dauntless warrior within the Zofian court, was somewhere awaiting her own death. She was important to their cause, but that alone didn't mean much to him like it did to the others. Clair had been miserable ever since she had been returned from her own capture—alongside Lukas and all those damn village kids—and was only more devastated when she found that Mathilda was nowhere to be seen. Clive was even worse, the stress of having to take over most of her leadership duties, and the fact that his lover was missing, all really took their toll on him.

And when Clive had relinquished leadership to Alm, that stuffy and stuck up noble Fernand had thrown a fit bigger than a child's. The man had never really liked Python—or any other lowborn man in his army—but the fact that Python purposely spoke so brusquely to a lord in a station far above him obviously didn't sit right with him. Many times he had told Python that he was lucky he wasn't beat for his manners, or that he didn't have the power to kick out one of Clive's favorite soldiers. Python knew he was lucky to be under the protection of Clive, but often times he wondered who Clive would believe if something were to happen.

But even Python was shocked when he stormed out of the hideout shortly after returning with the rest, Clair and her new "friends". Rumor has it he was captured by Rigelians, while others say they saw him as they took back Zofia Castle and that he was now Rigelian himself. Either way, Python doesn't really care. Too much had happened within the past two weeks that it made his head spin just thinking about it.

"Sir Python."

He's shaken from his thoughts at the sound of her voice, the sheet in his hands slipping to the ground, causing her to frown for a split second before he reaches down to pick it up.

"Sir Python, are you okay?" she asks, taking a step towards him, only stopping when he looks her up and down. "You seem lost in thought today."

"I'm fine," he tells her, and she looks up at him with those dark grey eyes. "Sorry about dropping the sheet."

Her eyebrows furrow at the apology, but she must think nothing more of it as she turns to hang her own sheet back up. Small hands and slender fingers smooth out the surface so it won't wrinkle later on, though Python isn't sure why she cares when they both know that some poor bastard on the brink of death will ruin the texture by grasping at it for life.

"Why?" he asks, not sure why he's speaking when he doesn't have to, but he feels a mischievous grin cross his face. "You worried about me?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her hesitate for a moment, fingers lingering at the edges of the sheet, before speaking up again.

"I'm worried about all of our comrades. War is a very worrisome thing."

He chuckles quietly to himself; it was a very noble answer. A very _safe_ answer. It was something one said to placate all sides—a peace keeper move. He wonders if she's got all sorts of vague ones ready to pop off at any moment necessary.

"Say...I got a question for you."

"Yes?"

"Do you ever eat?"

"Excuse me?"

He pins the last sheet to the line and turns to face her, her eyebrows raised and eyes wide. It's a very amusing look for her, and he stifles a chuckle at the sight.

"Do you spend all of your time in here when we're not fighting or marching?" he asks her, crossing his arms. "Or do you eat sometimes too?"

She looks towards the floor, and then towards the few cots she has in the tent.

"Well...I do spend a lot of time in here. Things get busy. I have people to take care of."

He takes a look around at those few cots—and how they happen to be empty at the moment. She notices this as well and seems to look away in embarrassment.

"It's hard," she admits with a resigned sigh. "I'm the only healer at the moment."

"Why don't you get that little village girl to help you out? Make her a cleric too or something."

She shakes her head, a disheartening look on her face. "I tried to convince Faye that she'd be better suited as a healer—I even went as far as to say that when Alm gets hurt, she can tend to him! But she wouldn't bite. She's set on being like the rest of her friends. A fighter."

She turns away from him then, ducking beneath the rope and disappearing behind the sheets, the faint light in the tent causing her silhouette against the white fabric to seem larger than it is.

"I think maybe she's trying to prove herself to him. Ever since we left the castle, she's been getting up earlier to go train with Sir Lukas."

Python feels his brow raise at that. Lukas cared too much about those kids, sacrificing too much of his own time for them.

"You sound like you don't like fighters," he says, pushing aside a sheet to follow her.

"I don't like fighting at all, but the times call for it so what can I do?"

"Or maybe you just don't like those village kids," he jokes.

She whips around, shock written clearly on her face. She shakes her head firmly, setting her lips into a firm line, and the look on her face then tells him that she is angry at the thought.

"I could never!" she says, her voice rising ever so slightly. "They...they saved me from those thieves, and then they allowed me to join them."

As if she's suddenly been caught, she turns her eyes towards the floor.

"I owe them my life and for that I am eternally grateful."

The tent grows silent for a tense moment, the only sound coming from birds chirping happily outside, as the weight of her statement begins to sink in. He had heard about the incident from Lukas, but it was rather vague, and if he was being honest, he didn't want to hear any more of it. He doesn't know if she's the type to cry, but he didn't need her tears to understand the horrors of it.

But then the statement sinks in even further, and Python has an amusing thought.

She looks up at him when he starts chuckling, crossing her own arms at him and furrowing her brow. "What is so funny about that?"

"They saved your life but still act like morons."

Her mouth falls open a little at that, her eyes blinking for a few moments in shock, but then—then she starts laughing, surprising him once more like she had at the river weeks before. It's soft and it's short, and she uses her hand to try and hide it, but the way the corners of her eyes crinkle up reveals all.

"Tobin and Gray came in the other day because Tobin had broken his finger," she tells him suddenly, stifling another laugh.

Python feels his own small smile growing on his face, even more long forgotten memories of him and Forsyth coming back to the surface. "How'd they do that?"

She rolls her eyes but she still smiles as she shrugs her shoulders. "They were roughhousing, I guess; Gray bent back Tobin's finger. Sir Lukas came in with them as well. I think he may have scolded them the entire way here."

"Better them than me," he says, earning him a smile before she turns towards her work station within the tent.

"It was an easy fix with magic but it did hurt quite a bit," she says empathetically, pausing to stop in front of freshly cut white fabric that he was beginning to grow accustomed to. "Sir Python, would you mind helping me roll the new bandages?"

Python nods, new thoughts crossing his mind. She was sweet. She cared a lot about the people around her and for that, Python is grateful. It was better to have someone like her, who cared about everyone's health equally, than to have someone like Faye, who may favor one person over the other. Even then, it didn't help that she was still extremely understaffed for a war. A war that was only just beginning. 

Before he can move to help her, the flap to the tent opens up, revealing a tall and lengthy man. Python spies the green before anything else and it takes all of his willpower to suppress the agitated groan.

"Ah, Python, there you are. I've been looking all over camp for you." Very abruptly he turns to Silque, bowing with a smile. "Lady Silque."

She bows her head in return, suddenly growing quiet as Forsyth walks up to Python, a grin on his face. Python gives him a warning look, daring him to say anything embarrassing, but his friend doesn't seem to notice.

"There's been a shift change in the first patrol after sunset. You and I are to take it."

This time Python doesn't hold back as he does groan, dragging a hand down his face.

"We had the last shift before sunrise this morning. When am I supposed to _sleep?_ "

Forsyth shakes his head with a click of his tongue. "You've got to earn your keep in an army like this, friend. Come now, it isn't so bad."

Python punches his friend in the arm, already cursing whoever put him in this position. He has a suspicion that it was Lukas with good intentions, though if it wasn't, he wouldn't be surprised if it was a different officer that didn't like him.

"You've been looking for me everywhere just to tell me that? You could've told me at dinner."

Forsyth shakes his head, examining the sheets hung up all around the tent, seemingly confused but not commenting on it. "No, Sir Clive requested us to be at the council meeting they're about to hold."

"Why?"

"You're an original Deliverance member."

Python frowns. He was never sure why Clive insisted that he and Forsyth be there, especially if he didn't want to be. Whenever he and Forsyth attended these council meetings, they stayed silent, acting more as statues in the background, knowing they weren't meant to be seen or heard. It's not like his opinions or his input mattered much to them. In fact, he didn't think that they mattered _at all._ He was just a commoner, with little experience and training in matters of war before he had met Clive, who never had to speak and was never _asked_ to speak in these meetings. He knows he could very easily butt in if he wanted to, and perhaps now that Fernand was gone, they would listen with unbiased ears. But that didn't change much in his eyes.

Then again, Alm was nothing more than a simple farm boy only a few weeks before, and now he was leading a liberation army before he could even be fully considered a man. Alm had freed the Zofian Castle from traitors; Alm had led them this far and he was sure that he would lead them to the very end—wherever that may be for them.

But Alm also had the drive and the will to lead the army, whereas Python complained about taking an extra shift for perimeter patrol. He isn't cutout for a leadership role, and he knows this, so he stays in the back where he knows he will be guaranteed a job.

"Let's go, Python," Forsyth chides, tugging on his sleeve and turning on his heel to walk out. He stops to bow once more at the healer, who in turn bows back, a polite smile on her face.

Python follows suit, dragging his feet a bit through the grass that covers the ground of the tent. He knows it's childish, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care at all.

"Good luck with your meeting, Sir Python," she says. He stops, nearly forgetting she was even there. She had been so quiet when Forsyth had come in.

He opens his mouth to say "thanks" but stops himself, standing dumbly in the opening of the tent, watching her as she begins to roll up bandages all by herself, just like she always does.

Python often finds himself doing things he can't explain lately, so when he stands there still even after she stops to look at him, he can't explain why he speaks to her once more.

"Make sure you eat," is all he says, but it's enough to make her eyes widen a bit in surprise.

He bows his head ever so slightly before turning and leaving her behind in the tent, jogging to catch up with Forsyth, who then proceeds to tell him all about the army's new problems. Python doesn't listen to him much, and he doesn't hear much of their council meeting either, but when dinner comes around and he sees a flash of white with blue tucked underneath in the dining tent, he knows then that she is _too_ kind, and that kindness like that will get her killed.

 

 

 

It's in the middle of the battle for Desaix's fortress that he realizes she is not some weak and helpless thing, but that she is in fact much scarier than he could've ever imagined.

He hears her scream first, loud but short, and his focus is instantly pulled from the heat of battle as he looks around for the source. The trail of blood staining the bright white stones of the fortress leads to piles of supplies strewn about in the dead center, and that's where he sees her, clutching her side with one hand while the other grasps at a crate next to her for support. She struggles, her wound obviously grievous from the way he sees red quickly spread across the side of her robes, staining her hand as she tries to move forward, away from the knight he now sees near her.

He feels his heartbeat quicken as he realizes what this could mean. Without the healer, many more of them would die when it wasn't necessary. So he starts moving, reaching behind him to pull an arrow from the quiver, tightening his grip on his bow as he prepares himself to take another life. It would be hard to find an opening with all of that heavy armor, but he would have to.

Before he can even ready his bow, she turns around quickly to face the knight, raising the hand that wasn't holding her blood in, and spreading it out flat towards him.

Python feels a chill run up his spine and he drops his arrow from his grasp when he sees her face. Her eyes— _good gods_ her eyes—look dead and lifeless and darker than night when they land on the knight, and he can only imagine the fear that man must be feeling with her soulless stare looking right at him.

She stumbles, shuffling forward with her hand stretched out and Python notices that her mouth is moving silently, no words and no sounds, that scream from earlier long forgotten now.

And then, the knight drops, his heavy armor clanking loudly against the stone and his lance rolling from his hands to stop at her feet. She stumbles back from the body, removing the hand from her side to hold one side of her head before she stands up straight as if nothing had ever happened. She turns around swiftly, moving to walk away, but Python can now see where the knight's lance had torn into her robes, and he sees the exposed flesh and the open wound.

"Hey!" he shouts without thinking, suddenly running to meet her, hopping over the body of the knight.

Either she doesn't hear him, or she's decided to ignore him, but when she doesn't turn around when he reaches her, he pulls on her arm. He's met with a hard slap to the face, and the mere shock that _she_ had done it was enough to make him release his grip immediately and take a stupid step back.

Her eyes widen a bit when she realizes what she's done and who he is, and she also takes a step back, an apology falling from her lips.

"I'm so sorry," she says, but she sounds tired, and he isn't sure if she really means it. "I thought you were—"

"I was calling to you," he says dumbly, raising a hand to touch his cheek. Up close, he sees how her hand is still slick with fresh blood, her hair and her headdress painted with red from where she had grabbed it earlier. "You—"

"Do you need healing or something?" she interrupts him, her patience wearing thin, and Python knows then that something is not right with her. "There are others I must get to immediately."

When he doesn't answer right away, she turns to leave again, stumbling a step before he grabs her arm once again.

Python could not explain the fear he felt to anyone when she snapped her head towards him and very calmly said, "Do not touch me."

Quickly, he releases her again, taking another step back as the anger in her eyes grows brighter. Oh yes, this was most certainly not her, and he starts to think that she's been possessed.

"You need to fall back," he tells her, gaining little courage from the way she's looking at him.

"I cannot. I have people to tend to."

"Don't be foolish, you're gonna die if you keep at this too long."

"I don't think you understand, Sir Python. It is my duty to—"

"Your duty to die while we need you? Because that's where it's headed right now."

Her gaze turns accusatory, and Python is starting to notice every little thing about her. Her chest is rising and falling far too little, her face is slowly growing more and more pale, and blood still trickles from the side of her wound.

"Who are you to lecture _me?_ "

He once again grabs her, by the wrist this time, and holds her bloody hand up in front of her face.

"You're _bleeding!_ " he tells her, his voice rising with the shouts of battle coming from somewhere around them. "Fix yourself before you try to someone else."

Her eyes widen phenomenally this time as she looks down at her side for the quickest glance, then turns her head up and away and shuts her eyes tightly as she bites down on her lip.

"I'm fine," she says with her eyes still closed. "I will be fine until I heal one more person."

"You're not gonna make it that long if you don't get out of here now. Find someone with a vulnerary, I don't care, but you need to—"

"No!" she shouts at him, ripping her wrist from his grip. "I will not abandon our comrades now!"

"I will throw you over my shoulder and carry you out of here if I have to."

He takes a step towards her and she takes one back just as quickly, a look in her eyes so worrisome that he feels fear and anger all the same.

"Do _not_ touch me."

"Hey—"

She stumbles back away from him, her back hitting the crates of supplies. She shakes her head, looking almost delirious as her eyes begin to search the battleground.

"I'm fine," she says, but it sounds like she's trying to convince herself. "I'm fine. It's fine."

Her eyes move about quickly, and then finally stop on something in the distance. Python turns his head to see what she sees, but she takes off nearly running when he realizes that she's set her sights on an archer.

He begins to chase after her, but someone gets thrown into him, knocking him to the ground. The force grinds his shoulder into the stone tile, and he gasps for air as he waits for the immediate pain to subside and for his vision to stop being so blurry.

From his side he sees her run up until she's nearly behind the archer, stopping only a few feet away, but not without nearly falling over from the sudden rush of movement. She then does as she did the knight, holding her hand out flat in front of her. Python watches in shock as the archer collapses like earlier, and he doesn't even realize it when he's struggling to his feet, moving towards her once more.

The stones of the fortress suddenly seem too white as he walks, his shoulder throbbing, but she turns once again, as if nothing had happened and nothing was wrong with her, her eyes looking for something else. Perhaps another victim.

"Lady Silque," he huffs out, but he's not loud enough for her to hear from that distance, and so he has to watch her as she runs off again, though this time it's towards an ally.

It's Lukas, up against another knight. He's clutching one arm with the other hand as he begins to back away from the knight, fear written clear as day on his face, and had it not have been for the life or death situation, Python might've laughed at the sight. But Python sees that his hand is absolutely red, and that the exposed skin of his arm is smeared with blood.

But before the knight can strike him down, Alm comes running up from behind, finishing him off before he can Lukas. More sounds of heavy armor hitting the ground fills the air, and Lukas can only give Alm a nod of thanks before the boy goes running off again.

He can then see her finally reach Lukas, stopping too late and colliding with him, gripping his arms to steady herself and causing them to stumble backwards a bit. Lukas must be shocked to see her in such a state as even Python can see how wide his eyes grow when he realizes who it is, gripping her shoulders in disbelief, but she must brush it off quickly as she pulls his hand away from his wound and covers it with her own, the familiar light of healing magic enveloping it.

Python continues walking towards them, deciding to try and call out to Lukas instead, but the name gets stuck in his throat as he watches her sway on her feet for a moment before collapsing. Lukas catches her before she can hit the ground, looking around frantically and calling for help to anyone that's near. Python stops, eyes widening, but he is not surprised. He knew she would run herself into the ground, and he knew she would die trying to save everyone, including herself.

He absently reaches up to touch the cheek she had slapped, and he realizes that there is blood drying. _Her_ blood.

 _Oh gods,_ he thinks, slowly taking a step back, as if it'll take him somewhere far from the battlefield. _We're screwed_.

"Python!" someone shouts from behind, and he doesn't have to turn to know that it is Forsyth.

For the first time in this war, Python feels scared. Without the healer, who would save them, lead them to salvation?

Without thinking twice, he turns on his heel and runs towards the sound of Forsyth's voice, her body and her image being left behind with the rest of war's casualties.

 

 

 

He's busy trying to nap the day after the battle when he hears a soft voice outside of his and Forsyth's tent.

"Sir Python?" it asks, and he sits up quickly when he recognizes her voice. "Are you in there?"

He scrambles, frantically reaching for his shirt laying somewhere near his bedroll. He tugs it on, barely slipping it past his chest when he tells her to come in.

He can then see her small hand grip the flap to the tent, gingerly pulling it aside to peek in. She's all cleaned up now, no blood to be seen anywhere on her, but her face displays worry, with her eyebrows furrowed together tightly and her eyes looking sad. He motions for her to step in all the way.

"Hurry up and come in before Lukas sees you," he tells her, and she does as she's told. "He'll scold me if he sees a girl in here."

She turns her eyes to the floor, and silence falls over them for a few awkward seconds as she stands there, towering over him for once.

"You can sit down," he says, and immediately she sits, tucking her feet under her legs and smoothing out the front of her robes over her thighs. Her fingers fidget nervously, and he hopes that she will get on with whatever she's here for before he loses his patience.

"I apologize for intruding on your rest time," she says suddenly, not meeting his eyes.

"It's fine."

She looks around for a moment more at his tent, and he can only guess what she must be thinking about it. It's dirty? So unlike the med tent?

"Sir Forsyth is not here," she observes, and he barely catches the way she lets out a small and shaky breath.

"No. He's not."

Her hands are shaking, he realizes, and he's a bit concerned then that she'll faint like she did the day before.

"How is your shoulder?" she asks.

"Fine. Used a vulnerary for it. It'll just be bruised for a few days."

"I can heal it for you," she says rather fast, thrusting her hand out towards it so quickly that she has to brace herself against the ground with the other.

He catches her wrist before she can touch him, making her look at him with what he thinks is fear.

"Why are you here?" he asks her, and at the smallest bit of resistance, he lets go of her wrist.

She looks away from him again, timidly moving to push hair beneath her headdress.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," she says quietly, looking at the ground once again. "I'm so sorry—"

"What was wrong with you?" he interrupts, and her head snaps up. "You were acting crazy, running around while you were bleeding out. Making soldiers drop without touching them, then dropping yourself? And you slapped me."

"And for that I'm so sorry. I thought it was one of them coming to finish me off."

"You about finished yourself off, collapsing in Lukas's arms like that," he says, raising his eyebrows a bit in disbelief. "A bit dramatic if you ask me."

She frowns, looking away as if she were ashamed. Python's afraid he's said too much, that he's spoken too harsh, and he's afraid that she will cry.

But instead, she looks back at him, holding eye contact with such a sad understanding that he's almost taken aback.

"It's possible that I can heal myself for a temporary amount of time during battle."

"Excuse me?"

"Yesterday, when you saw those soldiers drop, that was magic."

He feels his head involuntarily jerk back at the revelation. "I thought you could only heal people with your magic. You don't look like a mage."

She shakes her head, gaze intense. "Those who devote themselves to the Mother are gifted with...with something like emergency magic."

"Emergency magic?"

"We aren't supposed to use it unless it's absolutely necessary."

He falls silent, thoughts going all over the place, and she gives him very little time to process it all before she continues talking.

"When we are in danger, or we are teetering on the edge of life and death, we can use it to take someone else's life."

Python clenches his fists closed, only now seeing her much differently than he had before. If someone had asked him a week ago what he thought about her, he would've said that she was harmless, no hurtful bone in her body, and that she'd probably faint at the thought of killing someone. But know he knew; he knew that she had killed and would kill again if her life depended on it, and that she was just like the rest of them, her innocence gone because of a war.

"It's a devastating pain that is different for everyone, feeding on your fears of how you will die."

The thought of himself choking on his own blood floods his mind, memories of years hunting in the forest behind his house resurfacing, watching animals he had hunted doing the same.

"H-How do you know it's different for everyone?" he hears himself stutter.

She shrugs her shoulders, the corners of her mouth tipping down into a frown. "When everyone experiences it, there are always differences in the pain they complain about."

He falls silent again, taking a deep breath without even realizing it, but then he picks up on something she's said.

"What do you mean by everyone who experiences it? Those two guys yesterday dropped dead on the spot. How are they gonna tell you what it felt like?"

"Well, I..." she trails off, adverting her gaze, and Python feels his heart rate quicken at the suspense of it all. 

"Because we aren't supposed to take life unless ours is being threatened, the elders at the priory use it on us before we can learn it, so that we understand the pain we are putting someone else through."

"They _what?_ "

Python's view on Mila and her followers does a complete turnaround in less than a second, the thoughts of demure and pure and quiet little girls and elder sages now tainted by the thoughts of them using magic like _that_ on their own people. He didn't think that even student mages were treated like that, blasted with lightning or lit on a fire to teach them a lesson.

For some inexplicable reason, Python feels _angry_ that they did it to her, that they did it to anyone. Looking at her now, sitting on the floor of his tent with her hands moving restlessly in her lap and her back straight and proper, he wonders how she could ever subject herself to such a faith and such a duty where the people she should've been able to trust most had hurt her.

"It isn't necessarily meant to kill, just borrow a bit of someone else's life energy. I guess I just happened to target the two men on the battlefield that were already close to death."

He's silent. She hadn't meant to kill them; she was merely just trying to save herself. _She hadn't meant to kill them._

"Half the time the magic doesn't even work for me, and I'm left to defend myself by some other means. I guess the Mother was really looking out for me yesterday..."

"If it's supposed to heal you, then why were you still bleeding?"

"It doesn't heal our wounds but just gives us the energy to go on a little more, so that we may help someone else."

"Why can't you heal yourself?"

"Healing magic doesn't work on the person who's casting it because it's considered selfish. The energy I used to save myself could've been used to save someone else. Like Sir Lukas."

Python feels himself shaking his head, growing angrier with each revelation she gives him. "But what about you? You were on Death's doorstep yesterday and all you could think about was saving someone else?"

She seems to shrink back into herself, and he thinks that maybe she might regret coming to apologize. She had received an interrogation instead, thoughts of her apology lost. He hadn't meant to, and he wasn't sure why he had, but he needed to figure out _who_ she was. She was one mystery after another, and Python finds himself trying to unfurl them all.

"There was a big discussion about you at this morning's council meeting," he tells her suddenly.

"Me?"

He nods his head. "Lukas made a big ol' fuss about you. I think he's a little traumatized from you practically dropping dead in his arms."

"Maybe I should apologize to him again..."

"Don't do that," he says, feeling himself frown. "He's too much of a gentleman to ever blame you directly for it."

"Well...what did they say about me at the meeting then?"

"Lukas says we have to have someone with you at all times on the battlefield. So something like... _that_ doesn't happen again."

"Oh."

Her face grows a little red—most likely out of embarrassment—and Python wonders if he should tell her more. The council meetings were usually confidential, plans were discussed over and over until the most perfected one they could come up with was made, and then that was delivered to the rest of the army. 

"Expect someone like Lukas or Forsyth to be with you from now on out there," he says with a sigh, leaning back on his hands.

"I am terribly sorry for making everyone worry so much over me. I didn't think much about how my actions would affect everyone."

"Well, without you, who's gonna save the rest of us? You're important to us."

She locks eyes with him, surprised at his candidness, and then her features soften and for the first time that day, she softly smiles. She opens her mouth to speak, but whatever words she wanted to say get drowned out by the loud and boisterous voice of another.

"Python!"

Python stands up quickly, grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her up with him with little more than a yelp, and he's ready to push her out with the slightest sound of approaching footsteps. But the flap to the tent opens before he can move to push her and in steps Forsyth.

"When will you get off your lazy ass and—" He stops, half in and half out, eyes so wide that Python's afraid he'll have a heart attack. Python wants to laugh at how absolutely scandalized he looks, but he knows it'll only get him in more trouble than he is now.

"Uh, Lady Silque! What are you doing here...in our tent...with Python?"

She is just as scandalized, her face growing bright red, her eyes even wider than Forsyth's. She begins shaking her head and waving her arms in front of her, stuttering while trying to form a complete sentence, and Python realizes he will have to save her.

"She was just leaving," he says, and with a gentle nudge to her back, he pushes her outside with no protest other than a quick goodbye.

Forsyth looks him up and down, seemingly displeased with his appearance, but doesn't say much more than a simple, "You never change do you?"

Python frowns, because he knows Forsyth wants him to admit something, but there is nothing to admit. Instead, Python moves to shove on his shoes. He loathed the idea that walks suddenly cleared one's mind, but he did not want to be here for the scolding he was sure to get.

So he smiles at his friend, patting him on the back a little harder than necessary, and opens the flap to their tent.

"Why change if there's nothing wrong with me?" he asks, and with that he leaves, thoughts full and heart heavy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't sure if I should pull the last section and save it for the next chapter but it's here now. I'm already wondering if I should give this a sad, happy, or the canon ending, but whatever happens I want everyone to enjoy it. Thanks to everyone that commented last chapter and thanks to everyone who read this one!


	3. seas and shrines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He watches her quietly whisper prayers and words that won’t ever mean anything to him. He watches as the light from outside falls through the hole in the ceiling of the shrine, casting the statue and her in a heavenly glow. Her hands are clasped together and held close to her heart. What was she praying for?

Python has a drunken dream about her, the image of her soft blue hair and holy white robes tainting his mind as he tries to sleep off the alcohol once more.

In his dream, she doesn’t do much but just sit there, humming away like she normally does, rolling bandages. The song is familiar for once, and this one he knows very well, as do many children in Zofia he would guess.

She sits on the edge of the cot with her bandages and she works diligently, slightly moving her head side to side with the rhythm of her song, and Python wonders why he’s here, just watching her.

“No,” she seems to answer randomly, and he realizes then that he has asked a question he cannot hear himself ask.

He moves further inside the tent, and she answers him again without having heard the question.

“Why are _you_ here?”

Her tone is playful, a small smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. He feels his eyebrows furrow, taking a seat on the edge of the cot across from her, watching her pale hands and slender fingers roll yard after yard of white gauze across each other.

And he sits there watching her for some time, and he listens to her hum lullabies from a childhood long forgotten, the sweet noise drifting from his dreams to his waking thoughts.

“Sir Python.”

He looks up to meet her gaze and feels his heart jump all the way up to his throat, his blood suddenly pounding in his ears.

Her eyes—bleak and dead and soulless, like someone had come by and extinguished the flame within them—they look at him as a smile crosses her face and Python only knows that he wants to get out of there. He’s been wary of her ever since he had seen her use that ‘emergency magic’ at Desaix’s fortress, avoiding her when he can.

He quickly stands up from the cot he’s sitting on, but immediately sits back down when her smile turns to a frown. It’s more of a pout than anything, but he forces himself to stare at it rather than her eyes.

“Hey...”

His thoughts become dizzying as her words trail off, leaving him to figure it out for himself. _What does she want?_ he thinks. 

She drops her rolled up bandage from her hands and he watches as it unfurls across the ground, as she reaches her hand out towards him. Her lips turn back up into a smile.

“Sir Python,” she says with a tone meant for scolding children, and he finds himself reeling back from her hand.

He blinks, once, twice, and suddenly he’s met with the vision of a green canvas ceiling, no hands and no healers, just the sound of humming from somewhere else in the tent.

He sighs, placing his arm over his eyes, and he knows then that she is right when she tells him to stop drinking.

 

 

 

“Again.”

Python is pleased when he hears the arrow hit its mark, but outwardly sighs when he looks over at the marksman.

“Not bad,” he tells the village kid, causing him to frown. “But raise your arm a little higher next time.”

The kid—Tobin, if he remembered correctly—sighs, shaking his head as he pulls another arrow from his quiver and takes aim at the tree. He steadies himself, taking a deep breath in, and then releases.

“You’re taking too long,” Python tells him, after it hits. “Enemies aren’t gonna wait for you to catch your breath out there.”

“I know that,” Tobin replies, frowning at him.

“A good archer can shoot maybe ten arrows in a minute. You’re at six right now.”

He sighs again, frustration settling into his voice. “I _know_.”

“If you know, then fix it.”

Tobin opens his mouth, most likely to talk back, and Python raises a brow at the chance to get him for that, but the sounds of brush moving and a twig snapping beneath feet breaks his attention.

“ _There_ you are.”

Python has to physically will himself to not groan out of annoyance as he hears the voice of his employer’s sister. He forces himself to turn and face her, but he is surprised to see that the healer is there with her as well, holding a bucket of freshly washed linens.

“Clair,” he says, and he frowns when she raises a brow and throws him a devious smile. “What do you want now?”

“Is that anyway to speak to a lady? Don’t make a fool of yourself, you’re in front of _two_ now.”

He raises a brow, hating the way she so smugly crosses her arms when he doesn’t reply, taking it as a victory for herself.

“My dear brother has called for another council meeting, and _you_ are cordially invited.”

“More like I have to come, right?”

She hums in reply, nodding her head, and Python can only sigh as he must give in, turning to the kid beside him. He jerks his thumb back towards their makeshift training target.

“Go pull all the arrows from the tree,” he tells him. “If any of them break, then _you_ have to tell Lukas why you’re out here wasting supplies.”

Tobin shakes his head once more, rolling his eyes as he turns to walk towards his target.

Clair steps around Python, her smile growing brighter at the sight. “Oh, Tobin! I didn’t even notice you there!”

Tobin frowns for only a second before flashing her a wide grin. “Hi, Clair.”

“Let me help you,” she says, jogging to catch up with him. “Oh, look at that! You hit the target most of the time!”

If Python didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn that the kid was blushing.

Python can only sigh as he watches the two go off, already irritated when he sees Tobin pull an arrow from the tree with its head missing, and stuck in the thick bark. Clair laughs at him as she expertly pulls one out in one piece, tossing it to the side as she shows him how to properly do it.

“Hello, Sir Python,” he hears the healer greet, and he turns, having forgotten she was there.

“Hi,” he says, giving her a once over before glancing back at the two kids.

“It’s nice of you to help Tobin practice his skills,” she tells him, shifting the bucket in her arms. “I wouldn’t really expect you to do that for him. I thought you didn’t like the Ram villagers.”

He scoffs, watching as Tobin tries to pull another arrowhead that was stuck in the trunk of the tree. Clair hits him over the head with the loose shaft, surely scolding him for not doing it right.

“You don’t think I’m the helpful type?” he asks, raising a brow, and he sees her begin to panic, eyes growing wide at the suggestion. Playfully, he fully turns to her and adds, “You wound me, _my lady_.”

Her facial features relax at his jape, her shoulders visibly falling with relief. She smiles at him brightly, mimicking him. “Of course, I think _you_ are most helpful, Sir Python. After all, you help me when I need it.”

 _Only out of necessity_ , he thinks, but he decides that it’s better if it stays a thought, enjoying the way she takes his humor and the way she smiles at him slyly.

“It _is_ my knightly duty to help a lady in need,” he says, putting on airs—suddenly getting the idea to give her a deep bow. She giggles at him, pretending to curtesy the best she can with a bucket in her arms, and he finds himself smiling at her.

“My, my, you are quite the gentleman,” she teases him. “You sound like Sir Forsyth now.”

Python laughs, the mere thought of being compared to his best friend an amusing one. Python was not a gentleman and never would be; the thought of a life so formal was almost nauseating enough to him. Court manners and chivalrous behavior were simply not for him, no matter how hard he tried to follow them. A commoner like him had no reason to try and fit in with the nobles and their stuffy attitudes, so why should he even try at all?

“What’re you doing out here with Clair of all people?” he asks her, breaking the short spell between them. “Don’t tell me _she_ actually helped you with the laundry.”

Her smile falls a bit, peeking around him to glance at the other two. “I crossed paths with her in the woods as I was coming back from the creek I found.”

“What is she doing out in the woods alone?” he asks her, and then, as a second thought, he asks, “What are _you_ doing out in the woods alone?”

“The laundry has to be done, Sir Python,” she says, turning her head to look at the wet linens.

“Lukas won’t be happy when he finds out you went out by yourself.”

She frowns, tilting her head to the side when she looks up at him. When her eyes meet his, he feels a jolt; he was half expecting to see those eyes from his dreams, but he is only half relieved when he realizes that they are not them.

“You’re going to tell Sir Lukas that I went out alone?”

He looks her up and down once, eyes quickly scanning her body for any indication that she’s been harmed. She seems well enough to him, relaxed and even acting playful. He knew that if he really were the knight Lukas wanted him to be, he would report back to him about the situation.

“I guess I can keep it a secret,” he says, turning against Lukas’s wishes for him. “For now.”

She smiles at him once more, bowing her head. “Thank you.”

“But next time—you should take someone with you,” he tells her, surprising even himself when he says it. Why should he care if she goes to the creek alone?

 _She’s the only healer_ , he reminds himself. Without her, the army is in big trouble.

She looks up at him, eyes wide but amused. “Oh? And are you volunteering yourself?”

He scoffs, looking back towards the tree to see the two making their way back, most of the arrows intact and in their hands.

“What’s the damage?” he asks them instead, turning away from the healer.

“We only broke two of them,” Tobin says, holding out a hand to reveal the headless arrows. “The rest are fine.”

“ _Tobin_ broke those two. You know that _I_ know how to pull an arrow.” Python nods, and Clair dumps the arrows in her hands into Tobin’s.

“Well, we should really be off now,” she says. “Let us go, Python.”

Python watches as she turns to leave the little clearing, stopping halfway to speak to Silque. He watches them whisper to each other, Clair raising her index finger to her lips as if to shush her, and the healer simply nods in return. He raises a brow, making a mental note to ask the healer about it later—and then he wonders why he would even care to ask her about it. 

He turns as well, awkwardly patting Tobin on the back, but stops, his hand resting on his shoulder with a second thought.

“Go help the lady hang the linens to dry,” he says low enough for only him to hear, and Tobin raises a brow, but slowly nods anyways.

“Python! It’s not nice to keep a lady waiting. They will not be happy if we are late.”

He passes the healer by, avoiding her gaze as he reaches Clair.

“Goodbye, Sir Python,” he hears her say, and he watches as Clair raises a brow at the title. “Lady Clair.”

“Goodbye, Silque,” Clair waves to her before elbowing him in the side. He glares at her. She glares back, telling him with her eyes never to leave things unfinished.

“Goodbye,” he says without even looking at the healer, instead quickly glancing at the blonde next to him before adding, “ _Lady_ Silque.”

He watches with amusement as Clair’s eyebrows furrow together tightly and her eyes narrow, but the annoyance must pass quickly as she then does something that completely annoys _him_ every time she does it.

She holds her arm out to him, expecting him to offer his elbow as she says, “Let us go.”

He pushes her arm away, scowling at her as she crosses her arms in anger. “I am not _escorting_ you to a council meeting.”

“Python!” Clair says, but he’s already begun to walk back to camp, leaving the rest of them behind. He doesn’t look back, but he can only imagine the expression painted so clearly on the healer’s face. Maybe she would be surprised, eyes wide and eyebrows raised to the sky, or perhaps she would be disappointed, seeing as he laid hands on a noble lady as if she were just like him. Or maybe she would be amused, that small smile playing at her lips once more, her eyes half shut as she tries to hide the laughter from everyone’s eyes.

He shakes the thought from his head as Clair quickly jogs to catch back up to him, joining him at his side, but he quickly gives her a warning glare. She glares right back.

Then she turns her nose upwards in that overly pompous way she so often does, and crosses her arms, peeking at him from one eye. She’s careful to not trip as they walk back out from the woods; she’s an expert in distasteful expressions.

“You know she’s not a ‘ _Lady_ ’, right?” she asks. “They found her in a shrine occupied by thieves.”

He looks at her from the side of his eyes, noting the way she raises a curious brow.

“I know.”

“Then why do you call her that?”

“Lukas told me to.” 

“Since when do you do as Lukas says? You won’t even call _me_ a Lady.”

The memory of their first meeting, and him calling her by just her name, surfaces. The angry face she had made then was golden, and it was enough to make him laugh so hard that he got in trouble nearly right away. He chuckles at the thought.

“That’s because you’re annoying.”

“Python!” she says a little too loud. “I thought we were on better terms than that. I know you truly don’t think that about me.”

“Guess you thought wrong,” he shrugs. She frowns up at him and he flashes her a cheeky smile.

“She even calls you ‘Sir’,” she says with an even deeper frown. “I don’t know of anyone else who does that. You’re hardly worthy of that title—why, you’re not even a _real_ knight.”

Python winces. It was clear that she had been raised in high society and had been childhood friends with that awful lord Fernand, some of his ideas and values etched into her even now, whether she knew it or not. But he couldn’t blame her; it was just the way she was raised. She was taught to think lowly of commoners, talking down to them even if she had to look up to do it. She knew many things that he did not about the rich and fancy life, and nothing he did could change that. He couldn’t change who he was and neither could she; he can’t rip the silver spoon from her mouth no matter how hard he pulls, so he lets her say what she wants to him in hopes that she won’t to anyone else.

“I heard that you do laundry with her sometimes.”

“Yeah? Why do you care so much?”

She looks up at him, that devious grin crossing her face once more, and Python only knows that he hates it even more now.

“No reason. Just thought it was interesting. Quite a scandalous way to bond with someone if you ask me.”

“Clair,” he warns, but she simply raises a brow as they reach the tent, the voices inside telling him that they were indeed late.

“Hurry now, _Sir_ Python, we don’t want to miss the good parts,” she says with a wicked grin, and Python knows then that he is glad he never grew up in the court with her.

 

 

 

They reach a shrine dedicated to the Divine Mother only a few days later, and Python feels as uncomfortable as ever in it.

Python gets picked by Alm to go with a small group to scout and clear out whatever may be waiting for them in the seaside shrine. He doesn’t know what good a bow and arrow will do inside a closed space, but of course he follows orders anyways. It’s almost claustrophobic enough without everyone breathing prayers down his neck.

Divine Mother this, Mother Mila that. It all goes in one ear and out the other when Python hears the army groveling at her feet. The shrine was already creepy with all of the terrors roaming the darkest parts of it; he didn’t need the holy stare of a stone goddess to make it even worse.

But she, being the only healer within their growing army, comes along on every trip to every shrine and cave they find.

So when he sees the healer there, so concentrated and subserviently kneeled beneath the statue of the Mother, he is not surprised.

Accidentally he stumbles across the scene, wanting to get away from the rest but finding himself face to face with the stare of the goddess and her most devout follower.

When he realizes that she’s there, he stops in his tracks and he simply watches. He watches her quietly whisper prayers and words that won’t ever mean anything to him. He watches as the light from outside falls through the hole in the ceiling of the shrine, casting the statue and her in a heavenly glow. Her hands are clasped together and held close to her heart. What was she praying for?

A sea breeze flowers in the shrine, whistling throughout the room with holy words and prayers and wishes that were not meant for him to hear. He wonders, _is this some sort of impiety? Is it wrong to watch something so intimate between a follower and her god?_

He moves to leave the scene, trying to quietly step backwards out of the room, but her head snaps up at the sound of his boot touching the floor. She turns to look behind her, surprise on her face as she notices him.

He stands ramrod straight when he meets her eyes, an apology almost ready to fall from his lips, but she stops him with a smile.

His heart pounds as she waves him over to her and says, “Sir Python, you can come in.”

He knows he should decline, say ‘no thanks’ and leave the room and the prayers to her. But he inexplicably walks forward, towards her and the statue, and for some reason, he feels nervous.

He takes a seat on the steps, his back to the goddess and his face to the healer. He knows he has to be committing some sort of sin.

“How long were you standing there?” she asks, looking up at him with a bright smile.

He feels himself frown, confused as to how this was the happiest he had seen her yet. “Not that long.”

“Did you want to be alone to pray to the Mother? I’ll leave if you’d like.”

He shakes his head, loosely placing his arms over his knees. He wanted quite the opposite.

“I’m fine,” he says, adverting his eyes to scan the room. Grass growing up through the cracks of the stone floor, some columns crumbling from old age. Nothing special. “No need to.”

“Oh,” she says quietly, her smile falling a little, and he guesses that she’s finally figured that he is no follower of Mila. “Forgive me.”

“Ah, no, um, I’m sorry for intruding.”

She shakes her head, smiling once more as her headdress swishes against her hair. “It’s fine, Sir Python, I don’t own the shrine. It’s free to anyone who wants to use it.”

“Right,” he says, awkwardly twiddling his thumbs.

She clasps her hands together, once more closing her eyes, and he lets a comfortable silence fall between them. He watches her again, noticing this time how concentrated yet peaceful her face looks, the silent whispers escaping her mouth in small breaths.

He often wonders why he should put his faith in to a deity that had abandoned her kingdom long ago, letting them starve and die, their last words begging the Mother to save them. What good did the common people do for an almighty god? The Mother most certainly did not need him, just like he did not need her. Of course, his own mother would’ve slapped him upside the head for talking like that, dirtying a goddess’s name that she so wholeheartedly loved, blasphemy in its finest form.

“What are you praying for?” he asks her suddenly, his voice trailing off as he is unsure as to why he has. He should know better than to interrupt a prayer. 

After a moment more of concentrated thought, her lips stop moving and she opens one eye to peek at him.

“The usual things I’m sure all of us are praying for,” she answers, letting her hands fall into her lap. “A safe journey for wherever fate may take us.”

“Fate?” he asks. “What good is fate?”

“A path is laid down before us by the gods, Sir Python. We don’t know where we are going, but we follow it blindly in hopes that it’ll be a good one.”

 _Foolish_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t dare say it out loud in front of her or her statue. He shakes his head, staring at the stone steps of the altar that he’s sitting on.

“I don’t believe in fate.”

She raises a brow. “There’s nothing wrong with not believing in it. But don’t you ever wonder?”

This time he is the one to raise a brow. “Wonder what?”

“That if you had done anything different in your life, made one choice instead of another, that you would be where you are today?” She looks up at the statue of her beloved goddess, her eyes shining from the light trickling in from above. “If you had not met Sir Forsyth, who would you be friends with? If you hadn’t met Sir Clive, who would you be working for?”

Python frowns. While it’s easy to guess that he would follow in his father’s footsteps of carpentry had he not joined the Deliverance, he can’t imagine a life without Forsyth, no matter how annoying he could be. But surely no god had planned their meeting in their youth, blessing each other with an exasperating counterpart. There was too many people in the world to plan a fate for, and someone as insignificant as him didn’t need one. Someone like Alm maybe, but him? Never.

“If you did anything different, would you be here, sitting and talking with me?”

He doesn’t answer her, and her smile begins to fall little by little until her face is nearly neutral once again. She looks at him and Python can almost feel a sadness radiating off of her as realization that he will never believe what she does must settle in. 

“I am sure ours will be a good one.” She nods, her face showing resoluteness and determination, a sound sureness of herself and her goddess in her words.

“Don’t count on it,” he mumbles, because he knows the horrors of war and maybe she doesn’t fully yet. He can only hope that she’ll make it out of this one and never have to experience another.

He knows she’s staring at him now rather than the statue, and it takes everything in him to keep looking everywhere but her as well. He’s just waiting for her to say something, to scold him for desecrating her beliefs without having said anything.

“Sir Python—“ 

“Stop,” he interrupts her, noticing the way she seems to shrink back a little when he says it. “You don’t have to call me ‘Sir’ anymore.”

She tilts her head to the side. “But—“

“It’s fine. I’m not a noble and I’m barely a knight,” he tells her, finally looking at her from his step. “No one else calls me that anyways. I think you’re the only one.”

“Forgive me. I only wanted to show my respect for you.”

“Respect?”

“Yes. We’re comrades,” she says, as if it were obvious. “I respect anyone who has ever protected me on the battlefield. I respect you just as much as I do anyone else here.”

He feels his eyebrows raise, not sure what he’s really done for her besides give her trouble, laundry days being just laundry days to him. She must find his face amusing as she begins to giggle, hiding her smile behind a hand.

“But, _Python_ ,” she says, testing the name alone. It rolls off her tongue nicely, and once again she smiles at him. “If I do not call you ‘Sir’ anymore, then I ask that you do not call me ‘Lady’ as well.”

“Excuse me?”

“Just like you, I am not a noble, just a simple cleric from a small island priory. Sir Lukas is the one that started calling me that.”

Python laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “And of course, Forsyth jumped at the chance to call you ‘Lady’ as well.”

“Sir Forsyth has his heart in the right place; he just seems to be a bit eccentric at times.”

“He’s just excited to be here.”

She laughs once again, and Python finds himself laughing with her, the sound filling the air of the shrine rather than her prayers.

She stops laughing for just a moment before she holds out her hand. He looks at it curiously before taking it in his, confused but amused all the same. Her palm is warm against his.

“Well then, it’s nice to meet you, Python.”

He raises a brow, once again surprised by her playfulness. He isn’t sure whether to kiss or shake the hand that’s now in his, knowing Forsyth would do the former and Lukas would the latter.

He looks down at the small hand resting in his. He looks at the dirt under her nails from having to climb through parts of the shrine, at the blood on the tips of her fingers from having to heal Tobin after a terror had swiped at him. The hand that has healed nearly everyone, the hand that’s saved many of them, the hand that’s pulled arrows from his own flesh and then covered the wound.

He doesn’t dare look at her face; he knows she’s expecting something. But he’s not as daring as Forsyth and he’s not as formal as Lukas, so he looks at her hand and he shakes it once, gently. She lets out a small laugh, and he feels her slightly squeeze his hand. He looks up at her, his own smile coming back to grace his face. 

“The pleasure is all mine, Silque.”

 

 

 

He realizes that he likes the air of the sea very much.

Cool and breezy, the smell of salt hangs thick in it. They march along the sea cliff coast for two more days before another meeting is held on how to proceed further.

It’s after this meeting that Python finds himself at the edge of a cliff, sitting in the long beach grass for the very first time in his life. He never thought that war would bring him to the sea.

The sea looks gray as he watches the waves crash into the rocks below, creating white foam to return to the horizon.

The breeze blows the beach grass in a way that it looks as if it’s rolling in waves as well, and Python wonders what lurks in the sea he’s currently sitting in.

He stands, picking up the bow that lay next to him, and he pulls an arrow from the quiver that remains at his side.

He nocks an arrow, and aims at the sea. It responds to his threat by sending even more waves to crash against his cliff. The noise is almost deafening, but it’s a welcome sound; nature’s chaos instead of man’s.

He aims his arrow towards the horizon, and his fingers twitch and ache to release it. The bowstring begs to be released from his hand, to snap back into its place and send the arrow flying through the air.

The breeze picks up a bit, causing his muscles to tense, so he closes his eyes and waits for the cool air touching his face to die down a little.

And when it does his eyes snap open and he turns his aim from the horizon to the clouds hanging low above it and releases.

The arrow sails through the air, it flies and it soars until his strength is no longer pushing it, and he watches as it finally begins it’s descent into the gray waters below. 

Python likes the sea, he realizes, and he isn’t really sure why. Maybe it’s the air or maybe it’s the chaotic friendliness of the waves, urging him to take a dip, but he does know that he likes the sea no matter how turbulent it seems to him.

 

 

 

The army ends up cutting through a forest halfway on their journey to the sluice gate, and Python is not surprised that Alm has recruited another person.

An awkward young man with fiery orange hair and the dull colored robes of a mage. He’s tall, barely taller than Forsyth, but he is...weird.

But he is grieving and anxious. He doesn’t speak to the others much, and when he does it’s only to Alm.

“My sister!” is all he says to Alm in harsh whispers, as if he’s afraid if he speaks too loud someone else will find her first. “Please, my sister is in trouble...”

Python doesn’t have younger siblings, so he can’t imagine the pain the poor kid must be feeling—and he doesn’t really want to.

 

 

 

She loves to talk. It’s something he learns quite quickly when they stop being formal with each other.

She talks about little things, mundane things, anything that caught her interest in the day before—but never anything heavy. Never what’s truly on her mind. And he likes it like that.

“Faye doesn’t like to talk much with me,” she tells him one day. “I even suggested that we talk about Alm, but she still doesn’t seem interested.”

“What can you expect from a girl like her?” he asks her, collapsing on one of the cots in the med tent. “Maybe she only has Alm on her mind, but if she’s as crazy about him as you say, why would she want to share anything about him with another girl?”

He sees her frown, moving from one side of the tent to the other with dirty bandages, dumping them into a bucket to be disposed of later.

“What do you mean?”

He laughs, putting his arms up behind his head and looking at the ceiling of the tent. “Maybe she sees you as competition. There’s so many of these girls here already that think Alm is the next best thing since sliced bread.”

“Me?” she asks incredulously. “Competition?”

His eyes move to follow her as she walks back towards her work station, yards of bandages freshly cut laid out and ready to be rolled. Her eyebrows seem to furrow, a tiny crease forming in the middle, and he moves his head to the side to try and get a better look at her face.

“Do you like the kid or not?”

He watches as her face turns to a shade of red, and suddenly she is unable to look at him as she answers.

“Of course not!” she says, shaking her head. “I don’t like him like—like _that_!”

He laughs again, shutting his eyes as soon as he sees her cross her arms and turn to look at him crossly. He hears her sigh after a moment, most likely giving in and realizing that he was only teasing.

“I really do only want to speak to Faye as friends. I’m not trying to...to _steal_ Alm away from her.”

“I’m sure you’re the last girl she’s got to worry about,” he tells her. “That little redhead that came to the castle seems to have his attention."

“Ah, you mean Lady Celica.”

“You know her?”

He feels the end of the cot shift, and he opens his eyes to see her sitting on the edge of it.

“We’re from the same priory. On Novis.”

He raises a brow. “Oh really now?”

Her eyebrows furrow together once again. “Yes...why is that so surprising?”

“No reason. Is she a cleric too?”

“A priestess, actually.”

“Is there a difference?”

“ _Yes_ , Python.”

His name alone, with no formal titles and unnecessary airs, leaves her mouth, and he finds that he likes it much more than the stiff ‘Sirs’ and ‘Ladies’ they would exchange before. He had noticed that she used every chance she could to say his name without the title after their talk in the shrine, and he had found it amusing, if not the least bit endearing.

With just his name from her, he feels as if he’s on the same level, as if he no longer has to hold her higher than she needs to be. He can speak freely, without the fear that she will later turn his words against him. They can be _friends_.

“Forgive me, I had no idea,” he says flatly. She can only roll her eyes. “There’s always a difference, eh?”

He lets a silence fall between them, closing his eyes once more and letting the outside sounds fill the air instead. Birds chirping, people in the camp chatting, the distant sound of metal clanking together as new recruits are most likely training. This is the only peace he may find during this war.

He feels the cot shift once again as she stands from it, and he opens one eye to peek at her. She moves to her work station and he watches as she begins the seemingly never ending duty of rolling fresh bandages.

She begins to hum, something he’s grown accustomed to while being in the tent with her. She normally doesn’t do it when he’s up and conscious—she must think that he’s asleep.

He opens both eyes then to watch her as she works, noticing the way she stops humming every few seconds to blow the bangs out of her eyes. It’s kind of amusing.

She hums and she hums, and she rolls and she rolls, and eventually the humming gets to him, lulling him into a dreamless sleep. No healers and no magic and no dreams; it’s the most peace that he’ll get during this war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I hope that one of my fics will be recommended on a site like TV Tropes or something like that, and I want to impact people by the end of this fic enough for them to think "Wow, I feel really empty inside now." Maybe one day I can write well enough for that.
> 
> Next chapter starts with a battle and a little girl kicking a grown man in the nuts (not literally......maybe).


	4. little mages and simple flesh wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, sweating nervously: "i-is this how these characters act?"

Never in his life would he have thought that his scariest enemy yet would be a little girl on the battlefield.

 _Mages_ , he thinks bitterly to himself, as he spots her on the other side with a man so creepy and so pale, he has to be Rigelian.

The little girl cannot be much older than at least ten, and from far away, she seems harmless enough. But Python knows that magic is not something to be messed with. He knows that little girl is just waiting to zap him with lightning, or maybe burn him alive with fire.

He knows that Rigelian magic—the type obtained by giving the soul up to the North’s god—was especially dangerous, as there is no going back once you do. A power as great as that requires a hefty sacrifice, and he knows that this little girl was taken against her will; he knows that she most likely did not want to sacrifice anything to anyone from Rigel.

But there she is, behind enemy lines, and here he is, ready to kill her.

“The poor guy,” he mumbles, as things start to really heat up on the battle field. _The poor guy’s sister is gonna die._

He never expected her to be so young, but war brought heartbreak as it did triumph.

He watches as the little girl lamely raises a hand towards one of their own soldiers. He falls limply to the ground as he is swallowed by a flash of light; he doesn’t move or get back up once she passes him.

He blinks and she is suddenly gone. Python starts to sweat a little as he looks around almost frantically. Forsyth is close by, running his lance through a Rigelian mage, and Lukas and Alm are not far behind. Clive and Mathilda are further ahead, trying to clear a path through the bridge that leads to the man in charge, and Clair is soaring high above them, throwing javelins at any who get too close to them. The rest, he can’t find, but most worrisome of all, he can’t find the little girl.

It freaks him out. He tries to convince himself that maybe she had already been taken care of, or she had retreated back to wherever the safest place for her on the other side was. But he can’t see her and it _freaks him out._

Carefully, he starts to step backwards, drawing an arrow from his quiver and looking towards where he’d last seen her. If he can get to Forsyth and the rest of them, then he should be safe.

From the corner of his eye he sees two of the village kids—Tobin and Faye—run out from one of the alcoves in the sluice gate’s wall, blood covering their faces and arms. Tobin starts yelling at someone far away, but Python can’t tell what he’s saying as he hears something that makes his blood freeze.

The turning of pages, paper whipping in the wind as the feeling of static electricity runs its way up his back and the smell of ozone hangs thick in the air. He doesn’t have to turn to know who it is, but he can’t whip around fast enough to shoot at her accurately.

The arrow flies past her, near inches from her face, yet she doesn’t even flinch. She just holds one hand out in front of her, the other holding open a tome, and she looks at him with dead, soulless eyes.

The eyes remind him of the battle at the fortress, and a certain healer that cared too much about others. ‘Emergency magic’ turned out to be a phrase that actually meant ‘death is waiting’.

Python has seen mages perform magic several times. He’s seen the way that their lips move, reciting spells and incantations that have been handed down through the ages in an ancient tongue that no one speaks anymore. He’s seen them raise their hands and bring them crashing down, letting the elements do the work for them, and he’s seen the way that a certain frenzy fixes itself in their eyes, the high from magic making them lust for more.

But this little girl displays none of this. Her hand stays flat out in front of her and her lips don’t move, but the energy around her buzzes more than he’s ever felt around any other mage before.

He’s scared, he realizes. This little girl must be powerful.

So he cannot let her ruin him before he does her—he just won’t allow it.

He pulls another arrow and takes aim at her, not quite sure where he should hit. She’s wearing a breastplate, so the chances of hitting a lung are low. If he goes for her abdomen, she could easily fire off one more spell before she bleeds out and dies. His arrow would most likely just bounce off her skull and with the way his hands are slightly shaking, he doesn’t think that he’s a good enough shot to aim for an eye.

 _It’s better to get it over with quick_ , he thinks as he pulls back the bow string. He tips the arrow down a little, and aims at her throat.

“Don’t!” someone shouts from behind him, and he just barely registers it in time to drop his aim as the arrow releases.

It hits her in the thigh, passing through to the other side but getting stuck halfway in the muscle. She howls in pain, stumbling backwards a bit before he pulls another arrow from the quiver.

“I said stop!” he hears from behind again, closer this time, and he knows exactly who it is. “Don’t hurt her!”

He aims towards the arm holding her tome and releases, the arrow passing through her bicep. He watches as she drops the book and begins to bleed, her hand instinctively reaching up to grip the shaft of the half hanging out.

He feels his bow ripped from his hands as her brother rushes past him towards the little girl.

“Delthea!” the mage shouts, but Python blinks and she is once again gone, the air no longer thick and heavy with the threat of magic.

The mage looks around desperately, but she is nowhere to be found. Python can see his hands are trembling badly as he brings them up to the sides of his head, gripping fistfuls of that fiery orange hair and talking frantically to himself.

“Where is she?” he says. “Where is she, where is she?”

Suddenly, he whips around, pointing an accusatory finger at Python, and before he can even open his mouth to say anything, the mage starts yelling.

“Why did you shoot her!?” he yells, eyes wide with a certain madness that Python knows is bad. The air starts to prickle again, making him feel tingly, and he knows that magic is just bubbling in that mage’s blood.

“You could have killed her! Where did she go!?” he asks, and Python can only sneer as he bends down to pick up his bow.

Did he not even realize that Python had done him a favor? He could’ve very easily killed her right then and there, just as he had said.

“I don’t know,” Python says, and he doesn’t really care, as long as she doesn’t come back for him.

The mage makes several incoherent noises of what must be grief and anger before he turns and sprints off into the opposite direction, and only then does Python realize how hard his heart is beating in his ears.

“Mages,” he curses under his breath, and with that he turns to join Forsyth, where he knows he will be safe.

 

 

 

They find her collapsed on the ground near the back of the sluice gate after they kill the arcanist that had taken her. Along with a few burn marks, his arrows are still in her.

“Python!” he hears from behind him, and he turns to see Silque come in as those who had survived the battle begin to regroup.

He looks down at her as she stops to stand beside him, and he notices that she looks as exhausted as ever.

“I’m glad that you are safe,” she says, sounding almost out of breath, as if she had run the whole way there. “I didn’t see much of you on the battlefield. Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head, turning his attention back to the girl, but there are too many people surrounding the body on the floor to see it.

“I’m fine,” he tells her, and he hears her let out a small sigh of relief.

“Good,” she says, nodding her head. “I guess I should make the rounds and check on everyone else then.”

He scratches his head, looking down at her before pointing towards the girl’s body. The circle of people now block her from his view as they begin to talk over each other.

“There’s your first patient.”

He watches her eyes widen.

“What happened?” she asks, voice already starting to tighten up with worry. He sees her start to walk forward from the corner of his eye, and inexplicably, he follows.

When he joins the small circle of Alm, Lukas, Mathilda, and Clive, he sees that the little girl is alive, eyes wide open and looking around confused. He sees her big brother cradling her head in his lap, and he notices the way he rapidly blinks, most likely trying to keep tears from falling.

Silque automatically kneels down next to her, inspecting every inch of her body, her hand already covering burn marks as words of healing begin to fall from her mouth, and the little girl looks up at her bewildered.

“Everything’s okay now, Delthea,” her brother coos over her, but the little girl frowns up at him.

He watches as Silque’s hand stops at the bloodied skin right above the arrow in her thigh, and she turns her head to look up at him. He shrugs his shoulders, adverting his gaze from that questioning look of hers, trying to focus on anything besides the thought that he could’ve killed her. He looks over and sees that Alm and the others had quietly begun to talk amongst themselves, surely already planning their next move.

“Python, I need your help.”

He looks back down at her and sees that she still has not moved on from that wound.

“For what?”

“You know how to pull an arrow out, right?”

He’s confused as he squats down next to her. “Yeah, but...so do you.”

She looks down at the little girl. “Yes, but I need you to do it so that I may heal it as soon as it’s out. She’s very young, and I doubt that she’s ever experienced injuries like this, so the pain will be great.”

He looks down at the girl’s face, but she seems completely out of it. Her brother glares at him, most likely cursing him out in his head, but Python guesses that this might be the only way to set things right.

“Okay,” he says. “Which one do I pull first?”

“The thigh, please.”

He sighs as he scoots closer, gripping the side of the arrow that was sticking straight up from the top of the thigh.

“Almost a clean pass,” he says, but the healer looks unamused as she readies her healing rod, laying it across her leg.

Python will never get used to the sound of an arrow moving about in flesh. He winces a bit as he steels himself to remove it.

Slowly, he starts to push the arrow a little further into her leg, and the girl lets out a yelp as her knee jerks upwards, making him lose his grip on it.

“Don’t _do_ that,” he warns, and Silque gently pushes the leg back down.

“Just get it over with,” her brother says, and Python has to will himself not to glare at the mage.

He scowls as he grabs hold of the arrow shaft again, and this time he pushes harder and faster, grabbing the front half on the other side and snapping it in two before quickly pulling them both out. The girl lets out a scream as blood begins to flow, and Silque turns to him with wide eyes.

“Python—!”

“ _Go_.”

The healer stops for only a second before she remembers to cover the wound, the soft light enveloping her hands and the girl’s leg. Python watches as her hands become slick with blood, a sight so familiar that it’s almost sickening, but he also notices that she winces slightly before she finishes the spell.

Her eyes remain closed even after she’s done with it, but they open as soon as she catches her breath. She places a hand on her own thigh as she moves the healing rod to lie across the girl’s chest this time, and she points towards the arrow in her arm.

“Only one more to go,” she tells the girl sweetly, but she then looks up at the brother. “Do you have something for her to bite down on?”

His eyes widen a bit. He shakes his head.

“Then we better make this quick,” she says, this time to Python.

Python doesn’t have to push the arrow any further than it already is, so he simply snaps it in two and pulls it out so that Silque can cover the wound. When the girl opens her mouth to cry out again, he sees her brother wince and shut his eyes tight. Python looks down at the little girl, her eyes also shut tight in pain, and he throws the two halves of _his_ arrow to the side. _He_ did this to her.

The healing light from Silque’s hand cannot end soon enough.

“All done,” Silque tells her, guiding the girl to slowly sit up. Python can see a few tears fall from the girl’s eyes, and he watches as Silque gently places a hand on her cheek, the blood already drying, and using her thumb to wipe them away.

“You did very well,” she says quietly, offering her a soft smile, and the girl blinks rapidly as she tries to keep more tears from falling.

“Thank you,” the girl says, her voice hoarse as she wipes at her eyes with the back of her hands. “Thank you so much.”

Silque’s smile grows a little wider, and just a little sweeter, before the mage envelopes his sister into a hug.

“Delthea!” he cries out, his large robes almost swallowing her up in them. “Thank the heavens you are safe!”

He can hear the girl let out a short laugh before she pushes him away, a smile gracing her face as she reappears with tears in her eyes—though these are ones of joy.

“Brother! I’m sorry I worried you. It’s alright now!” she assures him, but he pulls her back into him anyways. “I’ll be alright with you.”

He turns away from the scene as Silque stands up, brushing her hands off on the front of her robes, another set ruined by the blood of war.

He looks at her and she looks even more exhausted than before, but he knows it will take some time to get back to camp. He doubts she’ll have any time to rest there though.

“I guess I better check on everyone else now,” she says with a sigh, traces of a smile still on her face. She turns her head to look up at him. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he mumbles, and he watches as she walks off, stopping to ask each and every soldier if they are alright.

He shakes his head. He doesn’t know how she does it. Sometimes, she had to cause more pain to heal people, to make them all better, but she was there with a gentle hand and a reassuring smile when it was all over, promises that it would be alright coming from that pretty face of hers.

A nice sight for someone on the brink of death, he supposes. That is, if her patient had survived.

 

 

 

They make camp on the Zofian side of the sluice gate shortly after the battle, and it’s quickly established that there must be at least four people on watch at the bridge at all times.

For once, Python is thankful for a council meeting, earning him a few hours of doing nothing in a tent rather than a few hours of doing nothing in the cold outside.

This meeting is nothing new; the others discuss how to move forward in their journey, what they might need to prepare, who needs to take shifts or duties. The usual things that Python doesn’t care all that much about.

“I don’t think it’s safe to have a little girl running around here,” he hears Clive tell the others, but Alm just frowns as he crosses his arms.

“She should be fine,” he says. “She could be an asset. We all saw how good she is with magic out there.”

 _A little too good_ , Python thinks, remembering the sight of that soldier collapsing in a big flash of light.

“Her brother is also a valuable asset to our cause. He is a talented mage as well,” Lukas adds, and several people nod in agreement.

“It is a bit troubling knowing how young she is though,” Mathilda says. “It’s not right to bring her into such a gory mess at such a young age.”

“War effects all ages. If she doesn’t see it on the battlefield, then she will see it happen to those closest.”

“She doesn’t seem to have a problem with all of this. After everything she’s been through with the Duma Faithful, this must be nothing.”

“Are we positive that their hold on her has been completely severed?”

“Yes. The mages have assured me that killing Tatarrah also broke the hold he had over her. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Alright then.”

Python stops listening soon after, already growing bored, but he feels an elbow in his ribs just as quickly as he had stopped.

He glares at the perpetrator from the corner of his eyes, and she gives him a devilish grin as she stares up at him. Clair didn’t seem to be paying attention either.

She leans in slightly closer and drops her voice to a whisper as the others continue to talk.

“What do _you_ think of our newest little companion?” she asks him, and he feels a frown already coming on. “I heard you’ve already made quite the first impression.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says flatly, but that only makes her grin grow even wider.

“Oh, but don’t you? I heard you shot her right in front of her own brother.”

At this, he turns his head fully to stare at her, but her gaze is unwavering under his.

“I’ll shoot _you_ next if you don’t shut up,” he tells her.

“ _Please_ , you know better than to shoot me in front of _my_ brother,” she says, giving him a fake pout. “It’s not like you’re paying all that much attention to what’s going on anyways.”

“Maybe I would be if you weren’t trying to gossip with me,” he says, but that eggs her on further.

“Come now, Python, I thought you _liked_ to gossip. I guess when it involves you though, you don’t care for it all that much.”

He narrows his eyes at her.

“You want to gossip?”

She gives him an innocent look, inviting him to raise his voice and get himself in trouble.

“Fine then,” he says in a harsh whisper. “Why don’t we talk about you and that little village boy?”

He watches in delight as her face turns to a deep shade of red, her brown eyes widening even without a name. She then glares at him, opening her mouth to fire things back.

“Well then, what about you and that—“

“Clair,” Clive says from the far end of the table. “Is there something you’d like to bring up?”

He watches as Clair stiffens at her name, all eyes turning to look at her, her back to them but her angry face to Python.

Quickly, she puts on a smile, and without turning to face the others, she calmly says, “No, brother.”

After a moment more of silence, the meeting resumes, and she gives him the deadliest glare he’s seen from her to date. She turns away from him, now suddenly more interested in the meeting than gossip, and Python has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing.

 

 

 

“It’s so— _gods_ —damn cold.”

Python wraps a blanket around his shoulders before he feels a chill run up his spine, fingers and face already freezing from being exposed to the brisk northern air. 

Forsyth laughs bitterly next to him, wrapping his own blanket around a little tighter.

“When they said it would get colder the closer we get to Rigel, I didn’t think they meant we might actually freeze to death.”

The night is silent save for the few people who are still up, and the fire crackling in the middle of camp. A small number of them huddle around it, sticking their hands as close as they can without getting burned.

Python drops his bow and quiver next to the crate he’s sitting on; he figures that no one will try to attack from the side of the sluice gate’s bridge that their guarding. The spot closest to camp, it’s the side of the bridge that’s actually touching the Zofian border.

He looks back behind him to see Lukas and Alm on the other side, not talking all that much, but even if they were, he doubts it would be anything of note. It’s too duteous for him to be so alert at this time of night.

“Perhaps we should have gotten more blankets from the last village we were in,” Forsyth says, laying his lance across his lap. “Even the worst Zofian winters are not as cold as this.”

“Don’t know how those Rigelians stand it,” Python replies, watching as more people retire to their tents, desperately wishing he were one of them.

“And it’ll probably only get colder from here on as well. I wonder if they really will send a party back into Zofia before we officially invade.”

Python shrugs his shoulders the best he can with the heavy blanket over him. “They’ll have to send the scouting party into Rigel first before they decide if we need to go back or not.”

“Lady Silque said something about returning to a shrine,” Forsyth says, and Python can’t help but notice the look he gives him. “She thinks a big offering to the Mother may help with what we might face in Rigel.”

Python scoffs, unsurprised that she would suggest such a thing. Go all the way back to the nearest shrine? Just so that she can offer something to a goddess that may or may not answer?

He wants no part of that. It’s a waste of time.

No goddess will be able to save them from the war that they’ve created. She can’t save them from human affairs and she can’t save them from their inevitable deaths as well. There’s not much she can do for them and it seemed like she wasn’t willing to do anything at all.

He wonders if Silque notices this or if she just blindly follows without asking or questioning why her goddess didn’t answer back. Why crops had started to fail, why lakes and rivers had started to dry up, why pirates and bandits and monsters had started to multiply, all in the last few years. If she believed in this goddess so fervently and so purely, then why had the Mother allowed her to be taken, kidnapped by thieves and brought to a shrine where they desecrated her holy goddess’s statue right in front of her eyes?

She had said before that the gods laid down a path for each of them to follow. Did she believe that the gods had planned _that_ for her?

He hears a laugh come from the center of camp and his head snaps up fast, fingers twitching with anticipation of battle, only to realize that it’s just a few of the village kids messing around.

“Those damn kids,” he mumbles to himself, but he sees that Silque has come out from the medical tent to inspect the commotion herself.

The villagers greet her enthusiastically, and even from his position so far away, he can see her smile in the light of the fire.

“You’ve been spending quite some time with her lately,” he hears, and Python drops his chin to his chest. He should’ve known it was coming.

He plays dumb. “Who?”

“Lady Silque.”

“Just trying to help her out.”

“ _You_?” Forsyth asks, incredulous. “Helping someone with _work?”_

“Why do you act so surprised?”

“You can hardly do your own work without complaining or finding a way to get out of it. That’s how you’ve always been.”

“Maybe I’m finally changing.”

Forsyth laughs, shaking his head. “I find that very hard to believe.”

“Doesn’t matter much to me, I’m just paying off a debt.”

“A debt?” Forsyth asks, eyes growing wide. “What great feat has she done for you that you’re willing to work it off?”

“Mind your own business,” Python says, and his friend lays off, if only for a moment.

Python looks back towards the fire to see her now sitting with the villagers, talking with them quietly. The fire casts her in a warm, and radiant glow, and she looks very natural with them in the way they all look at her attentively, their smiles as bright as her own. It’s nice to see her relaxed and enjoying herself for once.

“Just...be careful around her.”

Python looks over at his friend, but he’s too busy also studying the healer, his face set hard.

“What do you mean?”

“I _mean_ someone like her really shouldn’t be hanging around someone like you.”

Python is suddenly very annoyed by that answer.

“And what does _that_ mean?”

Forsyth seems to hesitate a moment before looking back at Python, a pitiful expression on his face.

“She’s a holy woman. You’re...you can be quite vulgar at times. The two don’t really mix.”

“Says who?”

“Says her religion.”

Python frowns at his friend, but he knows it’s all quite true. It didn’t just stop at vulgarity though. To her, he must be a walking impiety, not believing in her goddess and not taking part in her prayers. She heals him and grants him second chances at life with the blessings of the Mother, and he scoffs at her, thinking it’s foolish to kneel before gods.

Python can only shake his head as he pulls the blanket around him a little tighter, turning his eyes to the stone of the sluice gate’s bridge. It’s not very good for a watchman, but he’s decided he doesn’t want to look at her anymore.

“Our shift is almost up,” Forsyth tells him, but Python can only give him a noncommittal grunt. “Just a little more and we’ll be in our own tent.”

The thought is nice, but a different intrusive thought begins to pick at Python’s mind. Why should he go back to his own tent, where he knows Forsyth will be just waiting to scold him more until one of them falls asleep? There were other places in camp where he could easily hide out, and a certain one comes to mind.

When Forsyth tells him not to do something, obviously he must do it.

He tucks his chin beneath his blanket to hide the smile from Forsyth, and he begins to count the minutes down to the end of their shift. 

 

 

 

“Where did you even find these?”

She carefully pulls a cookie from the cloth in her lap, looking at it as if it’s the finest treasure she’s ever seen.

Python watches as she breaks the sweet cookie in half, crumbs falling into her lap when she brings it to her mouth. She takes a small bite, her eyes closing in pure bliss as she hums her approval of the taste, taking another.

“I had them saved,” he tells her, but that’s a lie.

He wouldn’t dare tell her that he actually forced Tobin to give up some of his stash, because he knows she wouldn’t eat it then.

“I figured you might like something different from the usual rations.”

She looks at him, features softening in a way he’s never seen before, and she smiles. Though she hides it behind a hand to be polite, he can see the way her eyes crinkle and her cheeks move, and she looks so happy; in a weird way, it makes him feel better, as if things are going to be okay.

She then holds out the other half of the cookie to him, but feels himself involuntarily grimace. He slightly recoils from it, his nose crinkling and his stomach already turning at the thought of sticking something that sweet into his mouth.

It must be an amusing sight to her though as she laughs, still hiding her mouth with a hand.

“You don’t like sweets?” she asks him.

He shakes his head again. “Despise them.”

“Then why did you have these saved?” she asks him, though her tone is more curious than accusatory.

He’s not sure why, but he momentarily panics. Why would it matter if she knew that he did _not_ actually have these saved from the beginning, and that he had gotten them just for her? She deserved something for everything she’s done for them, didn’t she? So why does it matter if he gets caught in a little, harmless lie? It _was_ only a cookie.

“Forsyth likes sweets too,” he says instead, but the answer seems to please her as she nods her head. “He wouldn’t mind sharing with you.”

She raises a brow as she begins to eat the other half of the cookie. “Perhaps I’ll have to thank him later.”

He rolls his eyes.

“You do that and he’ll offer you every sweet he can find in all of Valentia.” 

“That’s fine by me,” she says, and her smile then is almost devilish.

 

 

 

Days later, the only thing keeping them from officially invading Rigel is the return of the scouting party they had sent ahead.

Clair and two of the village boys had been assigned as the scouting group’s leaders, but something about that combination didn’t sit right with Python.

They were all pretty young, barely experienced in battle, and were now headed into a foreign country that probably none of them had ever dreamed of entering.

Children who lived in towns near the border were told never to go past a certain point around the outskirts of their town, and the children throughout the rest of Zofia were taught from a young age that Rigel might as well be hell on earth.

So why would they send out soldiers who were practically children themselves, the stories from their mothers’ still fresh in their minds? Sure, Clive had volunteered to go with them last minute, but it still just didn’t make much sense to Python.

But instead of fretting too much over it, Python finds himself often hiding out in the med tent with Silque. If he claims to be helping her with work, then he doesn’t get assigned to patrol, and that’s plenty fine by him.

Though when he enters the tent today, he is surprised to see a little girl standing on one of the cots, balancing herself on the thin material of it, and Silque looking up at her, a very small, yet worried smile on her face.

The girl is in the middle of laughing when he enters, but she suddenly stops when she sees him, freezing in her place on top of the cot as Silque notices him.

“Ah, Py—“

“Who’re you?” the girl asks.

Python recognizes her as the girl he had shot during their battle for the sluice gate, the sister of that mage with the fiery orange hair. He hadn’t really seen her around since the incident, but she seemed to be doing just fine now.

“This is Python,” Silque introduces him, moving across the tent to usher him in.

“That’s a weird name.”

Python frowns at her. “Well, what’s yours?”

“Delthea,” she says, still slightly jumping on the cot.

“Even weirder.”

She stops jumping to cross her arms and frown at him. She turns to address Silque.

“Why is he here?” she asks, and Silque’s smile falls a bit.

“He helps me with things sometimes,” she answers simply, and Delthea hops off of the cot.

“Why’re _you_ here?” he asks her.

“Bored.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“I dunno. He went with the scouting party.”

Python watches her place her hands on her hips, lips tightly pressed together, and almost wants to feel a little bad for her, knowing that she was just barely reunited with him not more than a few days before. He’s actually somewhat surprised that her brother left her behind willingly to be a part of the scouting party, especially after he had seen him searching and fretting over her so fervently, up until the very moment she had been saved by Silque.

“I told her that she could hang around here while they were gone,” Silque tells him and then, dropping her voice she adds, “I didn’t want her to feel lonely.”

He nods slowly, once again confirming that Silque was just too nice for her own good. The look on her face when he had entered the tent told him that she may have bitten off more than she could chew.

“I wanted to go with the scouting party too,” Delthea says, rolling her eyes. “But they said that I needed to rest some more.”

“We just wanted to make sure that you’re completely healed,” Silque tells her, but Delthea just gives her a pout.

“I feel as good as new!” she complains. “I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been. I could take out the entire Rigelian army myself!”

Python somewhat believes that.

“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” Silque says, but it only makes her pout more.

“Maybe, but it’s no fun just sitting around camp like this. I’m gonna lose my freakin’ mind!”

Python looks at her bewildered, and he knows then by just looking at her that she is trouble in the making.

The girl turns to look him over, brown eyes analyzing him in a very unusual way, and Python is suddenly thankful that he will never have to face her down on the battlefield ever again. Now, she wears no armor and has no tome, and her hair is loose, touching just barely past her shoulders. It looks messy and just slightly tangled, making it seem like she just got done rolling around, though he thinks it suits a troublesome child just like her. 

“I guess I’ll leave now so you can do your work,” she says after a moment more of staring him down. “Maybe I can get Lukas to play with me for a while.”

He hears Silque quietly let out a sigh of relief from next to him as they watch her leave the tent. He looks at her but she has her eyes closed.

“She’s something,” he says. “Hope Lukas has fun with that.”

Silque laughs. “She’s young. You can’t really blame her for getting stir crazy, especially since her brother is gone. I hope she doesn’t have to wait much longer...”

“They should be back anytime now,” Python reassures her. “If you’re lucky, you won’t have to treat anyone; they weren’t supposed to engage in combat unless absolutely necessary.”

“Good,” she says with a sigh. She moves to sit down on one of the cots. “Things have been getting a lot tougher lately.”

“And they’ll only get worse once we actually enter Rigel.”

She frowns at him, and then rubs her eyes, and Python can see just how exhausted she truly is.

He moves towards her, stopping halfway when she looks up at him.

“Is there anything you need me to do?”

She considers him for a moment, then shakes her head.

“No. You can stay here and take a nap if you’d like.”

He sighs and turns towards the entrance to the tent instead.

“Maybe I’ll see what Forsyth is doing.”

“Wait,” she says all too quickly, standing up suddenly from the cot.

He raises a brow, stopping and turning to face her.

“Maybe I can find something for you to do.”

“You just said—“

“I change my mind,” she says, and then, she turns her eyes towards the floor, playing with her fingers nervously. “I’m...I want someone to talk to.”

He feels both eyebrows raise then; she was lonely? How odd that she come out right and say it. Python doesn’t mind; he doesn’t like girls who try to beat around the bush.

“Why don’t you have Faye keep you company?” he asks, and he watches as her face falls.

“She’s with Alm.”

“Oh.”

Silence falls between them and he knows it will grow awkward quickly if he doesn’t speak up soon.

She is lonely, and there is nothing wrong with that. But Python doesn’t really understand why he has to be the one to fix it. He thought he caused problems for her, added another burden to the never ending list of hers—that’s what everyone has been telling him from the start.

He looks at her and he sees that she’s nervous, embarrassed even, for having to ask for his companionship. Forsyth had warned him about spending too much time with her; would he taint that pure and innocent visage like everyone thinks he will?

No, the war will do that for him. The thieves who took her, the men she’s killed, they have all done that for him.

“Okay,” he says, and she looks up at him with a calm expression. “I guess I can stay awhile.”

She smiles at him softly, and Python feels something in him that he knows he shouldn’t, but he shakes the thought from his mind anyways. If it’s company she wants, then it’s company he will give—though he isn’t sure how good it will be.

But before he can even ask what she needs him to do now, he hears the unmistakable sound of a horse neighing from somewhere outside.

Both of their heads snap to look at the entrance of the tent.

The neighing grows louder, and it’s soon followed by the sound of wings beating, and Python thinks he knows who it might be.

There’s shouting that comes soon after and then suddenly, the wings and the neighing stop, and Python rushes to the outside world to see a white Pegasus and a blonde girl.

It’s Clair, and she’s slumped over, not moving and not speaking. Her hair covers her face and the shouting grows louder as Python sees Clive on his horse with someone sprawled across his lap coming from a distance.

Python hears a thump and turns to see that Clair has fallen off her mount. He now sees the red covering the hide of her white Pegasus, and Python takes a step back in shock. She couldn’t be—

“Python!” Silque cries out from beside him, and she quickly bends down to check on her. “Bring her inside!”

Python stoops down to pick Clair up, finding it weird that she’s actually quite heavy, but the thought quickly passes as he sees the wound across her stomach.

Clive arrives shortly after, and he notices that it’s one of the village boys he has with him, also unconscious.

“What happened?” Silque asks, helping Clive pull the boy off his horse, but Python is already moving to put Clair on a cot in the med tent.

“We came across a powerful witch,” Clive answers her, out of breath. “We got cornered and had to fight our way out.”

“Where are the rest?”

“They’ll be here shortly.”

“Are there anymore wounded?”

“None as badly as this.”

Clive lays the boy on a cot next to his sister, and Python has to turn away when he sees the wounds and all of that blood. He never really was one to be squeamish, but this was the most morbid thing he’s had to have seen since the start of this war.

“Oh, _gods_ ,” Silque says, her voice now shaking, and that suddenly makes Python very worried.

He’s never heard her sound so unsure before. The look on her face says she’s scared. _Will she not be able to save them?_

No, she had to. There’s no way she wouldn’t be able to...right?

“P-Python,” she stutters, not taking her eyes off of her patients. She moves across the room to grab several healing rods. “Will you please go fetch Faye?”

He stands there dumbly for a moment before fully registering what she’s said. _Faye, find Faye_ , he thinks, but his feet won’t move as he stares at these bodies.

He’s never seen Clair look so disheveled before. She would die before anyone sees her like this.

 _Idiot_.

“Python,” Clive snaps, and that brings him out of his stupor. “Go find the girl.”

Python can only nod as he leaves the tent.

_Faye, find Faye._

Faye could help, surely she could. She had to.

Python breaks out into a jog, searching for her until he finds her, and when he does, he opts to stay behind, where the pain and the screams shouldn’t be able to reach him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone that reads this fic and actually enjoys it: thank you, you are my hero. A weird, and unsual little pairing, but I try to make content so that all of you can enjoy it with me. The original second half of the Forsyth scene had...idk a more "mature" feeling to it? But I thought that it was too early to bring anything like that up in the fic and I'm trying to keep certain aspects of this...ambiguous/up for interpretation. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading, I hope to see you all return for the next chapter!!


	5. tears and punishments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The game: Alm and his army invade Rigel immediately after they free the sluice gate and then Berkut comes along and tries to kick his ass
> 
> Me: yeah uhhhh, the army stays AT the sluice gate for at least a week because I need time to make these secondary characters that don’t impact the canon story all that much like each other 
> 
> Me @ myself:......,,,you are a literal dumbass.....please....
> 
> It's a long one this time lol I hope yall like long ones.

“I always thought that it would be you shooting me down from my Pegasus that would kill me.”

Python doesn’t find Clair very funny—but she seems to be doing well enough all things considered.

She’s all cleaned up now, hair neatly brushed out and her body adorned in a fine white nightgown, sitting comfortably on her cot in the med tent; the only evidence that she’s been hurt is the purpling bruise on her left cheek with the worst of her bandages hiding somewhere beneath the clothing.

He frowns at her either way though, crossing his arms as he feels Forsyth shifting uncomfortably next to him. He doesn’t care if she’s been hurt or not—that still didn’t make her funny.

“I’m only joking, you know,” she says when she sees him frown, her own lips beginning to tip down. Then, to herself she mumbles, “That sounded like something Fernand would say.”

He scoffs. Fernand would probably say much worse to him.

“It’s fine, Lady Clair,” Forsyth says for him, not caring whether Python thought it really _was_ fine or not. “We were all so worried, it’s just a little unusual seeing you in such high spirits so quickly after.”

She smiles at him. “It’s good to know how much I have impacted the people around here.”

“Impacted?” Python asks, but Forsyth clears his throat, as if he’s afraid his companion will say something to ruin her high spirits.

“What exactly happened to you and him?” Forsyth asks instead, changing the subject. He nods to the other patient in the tent.

The village boy; he’s still asleep—or rather, he fell back into unconsciousness when the pain became too great as they were trying to save him. He would be fine, just extremely sore when he did eventually wake up.

Clair looks over at him lying on the cot next to hers though, and she smiles fondly, softly. It’s a very unusual look for her.

“He’s a fool,” she says, letting her eyes flutter shut. “And sometimes a fool acts like a hero when we do not need one.”

Python narrows his eyes, looking back and forth between the two and at the way Clair seems to tone herself down, the way she seems to soften in every way that she can—her words, her expressions, her body—and things become very, _very_ obvious.

It’s almost laughable. He looks over at Forsyth to see if he’s thinking the same thing, but his friend seems none the wiser, nearly oblivious.

“No matter,” she says, opening her eyes, that serene look now gone. “I hope Gray has learned his lesson. He won’t survive to learn another.”

“Might wanna have a talk with him when he wakes up then,” Python suggests, and she gives him a once over, raising a brow. Python doesn’t like that look.

“Where is my brother?” she asks suddenly. 

“He’ll be back soon. He said he had to speak with Mathilda.”

She sticks out her tongue, giving a look of disgust. “He might be gone all night then.”

Python feels his own face involuntarily scrunch up. “Ew, Clair.”

She laughs, her shoulders shaking with delight, the merry sound coming from her almost unsettling. The two stand there awkwardly until her laughter dies down, her breathes coming out as sighs once she has stopped.

“I’m surprised you are still here as well though, Python,” she says after a moment.

He frowns at her.

“Just doing my job.”

“How unusual. I would’ve expected you to shirk your duty—or at least pester Lukas into doing it for you. _He_ would’ve been a much better sight.”

Python rolls his eyes. He wouldn’t expect anything less from Clair.

“Although, considering where we are, maybe that’s why you didn’t. Aren’t you curious as to where _she_ is?”

Python nearly dies from shock right then and there. His blood freezes at her words, his eyes growing wide at the implications of it, and he knows Forsyth has just felt the same change in heart rate that he has.

She raises a brow at his sudden change in face, a devious smile beginning to grow at the reaction to her words.

“What do you mean, Lady Clair?” Forsyth asks, but Python knows that he knows the answer as well.

Clair’s eyes light up as she sits up on her knees, clasping her hands together. “Oh, Forsyth, it’s just the most scandalous thing! Surely you’ve noticed, haven’t you? I thought you would considering you _are_ his closest friend.”

Python exchanges a dubious look with his friend. There’s no way she was going to do this to him, not like this.

“There are rumors that Python is—” 

“And just who is spreading these rumors, Clair?” He raises his voice to cut her off, the sound of it tight, his teeth gritted. He’s trying to not lose his temper with her, but even as he tries his best, it’s not quite working.

She may be his employer’s sister and she may be a comrade in their pitiful little army, but he still doesn’t like how she flits about however she pleases, using her brother’s soldiers for her own childish entertainment. And though even he is not the most mature person on their great earth, he knows that she is almost an adult—and he wishes she would start acting like one.

“Hush now, you’ll wake Gray,” she says, challenging him to test her. He’s bewildered, confused, stunned even.

But the shock quickly fades away as anger takes over, and he clenches his fists at the thought of something so idiotic—her rumors, her words getting under his skin. He begins to wish she were still unconscious.

She glares at him hard, and he glares right back, not afraid of her social status but slightly afraid of what her words will do. He doesn’t care if _he_ gets in trouble for some stupid thing she’s said, but he does care if she _causes_ trouble with the stupid things she’s said.

And he knows that she will very easily cause trouble for everyone around him if he lets her continue.

“I was merely teasing,” she says after a moment more of their stare down, seemingly deciding to grant him mercy. “It’s only fair that I rile you up for embarrassing me at that council meeting the other day.”

“You nearly _die_ and the one thing you do is try to ‘rile’ _me_ up once you’re fine?”

She shrugs her shoulders, trying to give him an innocent look, but her devious smile threatens to ruin it.

“Come now, Python, what good are friends if you cannot joke with them every once in a while?”

Python scoffs once more, shaking his head at the sight of her devilish smile taunting him. She may have those villagers wrapped around her finger—she may have them believe that she thought of them as equals and as friends—but he knew better than to believe something like that. They were _not_ friends.

Forsyth looks between the two incredulously. Python knows that his real dear old friend was just dying for the confirmation of something he had been wondering himself for some time now—but he would not get it tonight, and for that he is thankful.

And he is all the more thankful when the flap to the medical tent opens, and in walks Clive with that tiny mage, Delthea, right behind him. Clive nods to his two soldiers, then smiles at his sister, stopping at the foot of her cot.

“You’re looking well, Clair.”

“I’m feeling fine as well, brother,” she says, smiling sweetly at him. “I see you’ve brought a friend with you.”

Clive laughs, saying ‘yes’, but the rest of the conversation gets drowned out by Python’s intrusive thoughts. He doesn’t want any of them—they’re all very bad—but they bang at the walls of his mind and demand his attention. These thoughts are troublesome, unneeded, unwanted—so he needs to get out of there.

When Forsyth isn’t looking and the rest are caught up in frivolous conversation, he slips out of the tent, the cold norther air hitting his face as he takes a very sharp breath in. The dark and starry night greets him happily, but Python isn’t really one for stargazing.

 _That insufferable little wench_ , he thinks, still fuming at the unspoken threats she’s made. He doesn’t know why, but her plan to get him riled up had worked almost too easily.

Why should it matter what she thinks he’s up to? As long as he minds his own business, he can tell her to stay out of his—though he knows she really wasn’t one for keeping her nose out of others’. Once this war was over, he doubts he’ll ever have to see her again anyways—he didn’t plan on working for Clive forever.

Yet it still angers Python. It makes him pissed, irritated, annoyed, that some young girl had gotten under his skin so easily, made him panic momentarily when he knew he really had no reason to. Her rumors weren’t true, and they both knew it—but for some reason, it _still_ makes Python angry.

Perhaps it’s the implications themselves—or perhaps he’s just too angry to tell.

He isn’t sure if he’s shivering from the cold or the anger, but either way, he’s got to leave. His tent, Lukas’s—he doesn’t know but he’ll find _somewhere_ to go.

He doesn’t get very far when he sees _her_ though.

It’s more like he nearly runs into her when he turns the corner of the tent, making her jump in surprise at his appearance.

Her eyes are wide at the sight of him, and even in the pale moonlight, Python knows something is wrong.

She’s been crying. It’s that easy to tell.

The area around her eyes and her nose are red, and her face is splotchy. Dried tear tracks run down her cheeks, her lips look chapped, and her eyebrows furrow together in a way that says she’s on the brink of more tears and it tells him all that he needs to know.

“I—“ she begins, but Python just stares at her like he’s caught her in a lie. He feels like he’s invading her privacy, like he’s stumbled upon her doing something sacred. It makes him uncomfortable—but he doesn’t say anything.

He knows it’s not “polite” to ask someone if they’ve been crying, to point out how awful they look—so he doesn’t. He just looks at her and he waits for her to speak to him first.

It takes her a moment to find her words, but Python doesn’t mind waiting.

“I was just going back to the medical tent,” she says finally, her voice surprisingly even and steady. “Sir Clive sent me out to see Sir Lukas earlier for dinner.”

“Ah, dinner dates with Lukas now?” he jokes, finding it easier to pretend that he hasn’t seen anything.

She laughs dryly, hollowly: she shakes her head without looking at him. “No, he just thought that I needed a break. He said Sir Lukas would get me something to eat.”

“Shame,” he lamely says, and she tries her best to smile at him, but he can easily tell that it is fake.

“What’re you doing out in the cold?” she asks.

“The med tent’s a little too crowded for my tastes right now.”

“Oh?” Her eyes grow wide, and a bit of hopefulness creeps into her voice. “Did Gray wake up?”

“No. Still just Clair and half her entourage in there.”

“Ah, I see,” she says, the disappointment now obvious. She wraps her arms around herself, letting a small sigh escape her lips, her breath sending a thin cloud of vapor into the night air.

Silence falls between them once more, neither looking at the other, and he begins to wonder why she’s still here.

He hasn’t seen her since he left to get Faye at her request earlier in the day—when the scouting party had just arrived—but the absence of blood from her robes tells him that she’s had the chance to change at least.

Her headdress has stripes of red on it though, and the tips of her hair hanging just barely past it also look slightly tinged with it as well. He looks at her neck, her hands, but everything else seems to be clean and free of blood. For once, _she_ is almost free of blood—but almost free wasn’t quite the same as completely.

But he wonders why she was crying. Was it the stress from having to do it all herself? The thought of losing friends she had become close to in the war? Or maybe she is just not as battle hardened as he had thought, and there really was a first time for everything. It may be her duty to save those she can, but he knows it must not be an easy job.

He looks at her and he sees her bottom lip threatening to become a pout, trembling ever so slightly in the dark of night. Was she going to cry again, though this time in front of him? He doesn’t think he wants to stick around to see that, so he makes to leave her be and say goodbye.

But before he can, she speaks up first.

“Python?” she asks, and her voice when she says his name stirs some sort of sadness within him. She sounds so dejected, so hopeless.

“Yes?” he answers back, but for the first time, he can’t make his voice reach above a whisper.

She doesn’t look at him; instead she keeps her eyes trained on the grass below their feet. She lets out a shaky breath, running her hands up and down her arms; whether it’s to fight off the cold or comfort herself, he doesn’t know.

“Will you...will you take me down to the river? Sir Lukas made it very clear that I couldn’t leave camp without an escort, especially now that we’re so close to Rigel.”

He feels an eyebrow raise.

“The river? Now’s not really the time to be worried about laundry—“

“No, I...I need to wash my face. I don’t want to go back before I do.”

Her eyes look everywhere _but_ him. He’s never seen her quite like this, so downtrodden, so unsure of herself.

“But that water must be freezing,” he argues. “We have water in the tent that you could use—“

“Please, Python,” she begs, finally looking up at him. “I just need to.”

She gives him a pleading look and he finds it hard to say no.

Then he thinks, why should he care if she wants to stick her hands into the freezing waters? Let her, it’s none of his business. She would be fine...wouldn’t she?

Surely it couldn’t hurt for her to spend a few more minutes away from the med tent.

“Okay,” he says, and she closes her eyes, letting out a small sigh of relief.

“Thank you.”

The river that divides Rigel and Zofia is large, and together they walk in silence to the edge of it, the sluice gate not far from their sight. The moon’s light bounces off the surface of the water dangerously, the current pulling at the reflection and making it distorted.

Python shivers harder now, watching her move to kneel by the edge of it. He doesn’t warn her to be careful; instead, he just sits in the grass a few feet behind her and watches. 

He watches as she cups her hands, dipping them into the water and then bringing it up to her face. He shivers again as he sees her do it and again as she repeats.

Several times, over and over, she dips her hands into the freezing waters and splashes it over her face. She rubs at her eyes, her nose, her mouth, and she even takes off her headdress to dunk it into the water as well.

She holds it there, until her hands must start to burn from the cold, and when she pulls back, she wrings it out the best she can, gently placing it next to her.

He sees her cover her eyes with her hands and double over as she begins to, what he guesses is, quietly pray to herself. He can’t see her lips moving from where he sits but he can just barely hear her words being muffled by her lap, just barely make out the way her shoulders gently shake.

She must be freezing. He can barely stand the northern air himself without having to touch the water. He’s nearly miserable.

“You must think I’ve gone crazy,” she says suddenly, sitting up and turning to look at him.

It’s the first time he’s seen her without her headdress, and he is surprised to see that she looks much younger, much more innocent and scared. Her blue hair is chopped short in a way that makes her almost look like a child, and her bangs are soaked, sticking to her forehead in scraggly strands. It’s unsettling, knowing what she’s seen and dealt with since the start of the war, and he briefly wonders how old she really is.

“Nah,” he says, loosely wrapping his arms around his knees. “I’ve figured you were crazy from the start.”

She lets out a small laugh, and slowly, she moves away from the edge of the water. He watches as she carefully crawls towards where he is sitting on her hands and knees, stopping to sit down next to him, a foot away.

“I’m sorry,” she says simply, sadly, and he looks at her. Her face doesn’t look as bad or as weary as it had before, but her eyebrows still furrow and her lips remain in an ever perpetual pout.

“What for?”

“For making you take me down here. It seems silly now that I think about it.”

“That’s because it is silly.”

She gives him a halfhearted smile, but Python sort of regrets saying it to her now.

“I’m kind of embarrassed,” she says, playing with her fingers nervously. “I didn’t expect to run in to you of all people.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he says, turning his attention back to the water.

Just on the other side of this river is Rigel. They’re so close to enemy territory—they’re practically on it. In just a few days, they’ll invade the ever mysterious country that’s always been to the north, always been a sore subject, always been a potential threat. Python isn’t sure how he feels about that.

Even as a child he was warned about how dreadful of a place Rigel is. ‘Only the hopeless go to Rigel to seek power,’ is what most children heard, and he was beginning to believe it. The Duma Faithful—the arcanists, the mages, the _witches_ —it’s all of those scary stories that his parents would tell him come to life.

He feels himself shiver once more, though this time he knows it isn’t from the cold.

“It’s all getting to be a bit too much for me,” Silque speaks up from beside him.

He raises a brow, looking at her from the side of his eye.

“Today...I didn’t know if I was going to be able to save them both myself,” she says, but she is also looking at the river—or maybe the land on the other side of it. “Clair and Gray, I mean.”

“But you did save them,” he dumbly tells her, finding that his voice is once again quiet.

“It was almost too much for me though,” she replies, her voice tight. “There’s not really anyone else that can help. Even I haven’t seen something that bad ever in my life. No one at the priory teaches you how to deal with that. There is nothing in Mila’s teachings that tell you what to do when you see something like _that_.”

She gives him a short, bitter laugh, her face twisting in pain. “Faye threw up when she saw Gray.”

He stays silent. He isn’t very surprised. 

“I don’t mind throwing out robes—they can be easily replaced.”

She’s restless, her arms moving to cross and uncross, her hand folding and unfolding. She sighs more times than he can count, though he thinks she’s trying to hide it.

“But...But the blood stains my hands as well.”

He takes a quick glance down at those small hands, still anxiously fidgeting, playing with the hem of her skirts, running over the tips of her shoes, pushing her bangs back, tucking her short hair behind an ear.

“It washes off easy enough but—it’s still _there_. It’s still there no matter how hard I scrub.”

Python knows what she means now. Blood washes off—superficially—but it stains the worst; the robes, the hands, the _soul_.

It was what she chose to do with her life though—wasn’t it? Help those who needed the love and care that she could provide, give to those who needed healing more than anyone else. It’s the path she chose—or maybe she thought it was the path the gods chose for her.

Seeing her like this, so beat down and unsure and insecure, he begins to wonder, _Are you doubting your goddess?_

He doesn’t realize he’s voiced his question out loud until she quietly says, “No, never,” but it sounds a lot more like _I don’t know, maybe_ to him.

How sad, how pitiful, he thinks. Even her goddess’s words cannot help or heal her now, especially when she needs it most.

But he doesn’t know why she’s told _him_ all of this. Tell Lukas, tell Forsyth, tell someone that will actually be able to comfort an aching heart. He is not the best person to confide in—he doesn’t _do_ feelings because they are messy. And the way she keeps talking, keeps telling him these things that he didn’t ask to hear, it’ll only make things messier.

“I don’t know how much longer I will be able to do this,” she says sadly. “I know that everyone needs me but—but what will I do when I can no longer find it in me to—to—“

“Hey,” he stops her before she can begin to cry again, and she jumps at his voice, eyes growing wide. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes again. She laughs, but it is hollow. “I sound like a child, don’t I?”

She shakes her head, smiling once more at her own foolish behavior. “I apologize if I scared you. I’m just...exhausted.”

The effort and energy she must’ve put into healing those two must’ve been way more than she was used to.

“It’s fine, just don’t go around saying those things to—“

“I know,” she sighs, taking a deep breath. “I know it isn’t fair for me to say things like that. Everyone is counting on me, so I can’t doubt myself. This won’t happen again. I apologize for burdening you with my worries.”

He feels completely turned around. Since when had she become a burden to _him?_

“There’s no need to...” But his words drift off, getting lost somewhere in the cold northern air between them.

Her bottom lip still trembles when he looks at her though, and he can no longer feel the tips of his fingers—or his nose or his ears. He feels his own teeth begin to chatter, and she looks up at him with a sympathetic smile.

It’s not fake, but it’s not completely there, but he knows that she is trying—and part of him knows that she is trying just for him.

“I guess we should head back before someone sends a search party for us,” she jokes, running fingers through her wet bangs once more to fix them. “Your lips are beginning to turn blue.”

He can only stare at her as she silently stands up from her spot next to him, moving back to the bank of the river to grab her headdress, keeping it in her hands rather than on her head. He licks his lips as he also stands, waiting for her to join him.

The walk back to camp is silent as well, but Python doesn’t mind; what more needed to be said? Voices still come from the medical tent when they stop in front of it, shadows appearing against the green canvas walls.

They stop, and they stare at one another, only looking away when it becomes somewhat awkward.

She wanted to go to the river to try and hide the fact that she was crying, and though her face doesn’t look as bad as it did, she still looks somewhat more disheveled than she did before. Her headdress wet and in her hands instead of on her head, her choppy blue hair and wet bangs exposed. Even _her_ lips look like they’re beginning to turn blue—to anyone else, it might seem like she fell in the river. He just hopes he doesn’t somehow get blamed for it.

But she’s pretty, he decides, especially without the headdress. 

And yet he knows that pretty will not save her—it will not save any of them—so the thought gets quickly left behind just like him as she slips away without a word, slender fingers pulling back the flap to the tent and a fake smile plastered to her face as she enters it.

 

 

 

Forsyth had demanded that they show up early to the council meeting the next morning, as punishment for leaving before Clive had dismissed him.

And though Python loathes the thought of it, he is just thankful that his friend did not find out about his small detour with the healer. He did not need to give him another frivolous reason to nag him.

When he came back to their tent—and after he had finished scolding him—he had told him that the healer came back looking a little disorderly. And though she had told him that she merely stopped by her and Faye’s tent to wash her face, Forsyth still didn’t believe it for some reason or another. He could tell from the look on his face that he was suspicious.

Python told him that he didn’t care what the healer did—he had only told him to shut up and go to sleep.

When they do arrive at the council meeting early, few people are in the tent. And before he can take a seat at the long table with maps splayed across from end to end, he sees her there as well.

She’s speaking to Lukas quietly, inaudibly, her gaze intense as she does, her robes changed, her headdress back on. She looks very much like herself, very back to normal, as if nothing had ever happened.

Lukas nods to whatever she’s saying, returning her words with his own short whispers, not even bothering to acknowledge the two who had just walked in.

Forsyth gives Python a look of suspicion, carefully watching him before moving away to speak with Alm, his loud voice giving him a morning greeting.

Python just stands there like an idiot, studying the two as they speak in hushed whispers. Lukas has his arms crossed, his brow furrowed, and she plays with her fingers, a worried look on her face. Lukas shakes his head firmly, and she tilts hers slightly to the side as if to plead with him.

“Sir Lukas,” she nearly whines, but that is all he is able to pick out as Lukas seems to stall for a moment, looking her over.

He begins to wonder—were they fighting?

He’s never seen her act like that with anyone else, talking so intensely and secretively, even _whining_ , so he can’t help but wonder.

He knows that along with all of the village kids Lukas had picked up and brought back, she was also among them. She’s known and traveled with Lukas for maybe only a week longer than Python has, but did that mean she was closer to Lukas than him?

Python shakes that thought from his head. He doesn’t know why he should care if she was, and he doubts that anyone could crack that cold shell of Lukas’s so easily and quickly. Except maybe Alm, who Lukas had taken to following around recently.

But their quiet conversation is soon over, and Silque gives Lukas a polite smile and bows her head in thanks before turning to leave—but not without nearly bumping in to Python.

She’s startled, but quickly gives him a small smile as she realizes who it is.

“Oh, good morning, Python.”

She’s cheery and seemingly in a bright mood as she greets him.

“Morning,” he says, waiting for Lukas to move across the room before continuing. “What was that all about? Lover’s quarrel?”

He watches in amusement as her face turns as red as Lukas’s armor, her eyes widening, blinking rapidly in shock as she scoffs at him. But the embarrassment must quickly fall away as she crosses her arms across her chest, a very unamused look crossing her face. 

“I— _No_ , Python. It was not.”

He laughs at her, causing her short lived anger—if one could even call it that—to fade, making her smile once more.

“Glad to hear that, then,” he says, raising a brow. “It sure did look interesting though. Would love to know all of the juicy details.”

She raises a brow back at him. “Have you taken to eavesdropping now? That’s not very nice of you—I would hate to have to tell Sir Forsyth.”

He groans, rolling his eyes at the mere thought and all the trouble he would get into because of it, but the sight causes her to give a short laugh.

“Sir Lukas asked that I not discuss it until after the meeting though. I’m sure you’ll learn all about it quite soon,” she tells him, and he furrows his brows at the secretive nature of it all.

“So then you’re staying for this meeting?”

“No,” she shakes her head, moving around him to leave. “I only wished to speak with him about things beforehand.”

She turns to wave when she hears Forsyth voice his greeting to her, already stepping halfway out of the tent before turning to look back at him, his eyes following her intently.

“Goodbye, Python,” she says, giving him one last smile, this one bigger and brighter than the rest, and Python finds it a little unsettling. “I will see you later.”

“Bye,” he barely pushes out, but she’s already gone, off to do whatever she needs to do.

It doesn’t take much longer for the council meeting to start, but Python does indeed find out very quickly what her conversation with Lukas had been about.

As much as they had been hoping against and trying to avoid—they would have to send a small group back into Zofia before officially invading Rigel.

Python has to stop himself from heaving the biggest sigh ever—what a pain in the ass that would be, to have to wait even longer—but his need to sigh quickly disappears as he is told that he’ll be one of the people in this small group to return.

He feels shocked, then confused, then angry, because he doesn’t understand why he has to take on such a frivolous task as that. It’s a supplies trip. Why does he need to come along?

Send Lukas, he suggests, but Lukas is busy here with Clive and Alm and Mathilda, coming up with plans on how to move forward, and keeping the home front safe. He’s busy being useful, so Python understands now why he’s getting picked to go—though it doesn’t change the fact that he doesn’t want to.

Forsyth volunteers to go with him as well, and for that Python is thankful at the very least. 

Until he finds out that Silque is going too, that this is what she and Lukas had been arguing about. Silque, and Faye, and one of the village boys. Python just about loses his mind.

A three day trip, that’s how fast it should be, but Python dumbly wonders how fast they could make it if they ran the whole way—and then he thinks of how sore his feet will be. 

 

 

 

The first day passes easily enough, and Python thinks that they’re making good time. The weather has been nice, and he is glad that the further they get from the border, the warmer it becomes.

Forsyth is put in charge of their small group because of his position as Clive’s lieutenant. Python doesn’t really know how good of an idea that is though, as sometimes his friend can get a little too excited.

But his company as they travel through the northern part of Zofia is fine by him, welcomed even—that is, when he’s not trying to talk to the others.

“Tell me _why_ we’re taking you along again?”

“Python! You’re being rude.”

Forsyth’s voice cuts through the air of the shaded forest as he looks at him with a disappointed expression, putting himself in between Silque and him. The small trail is just barely big enough for all three of them to walk side by side, but Forsyth nearly pushes him off the path and into a tree as he forces himself in between.

Silque raises a brow, but laughs lightly anyways, swinging the healing rod in her hands back and forth gently like a child.

“We’re stopping by a nearby shrine on the way back,” she says, her voice telling him that she’s happy to be traveling with them.

“So that’s why you asked Lukas to let you come along,” he scoffs, stepping in front of Forsyth so he can see her. “What’d it take for him to finally give in?”

Forsyth protests by pushing on his back, but Python pretends to not even notice.

She looks at him from the corner of her eye, a mischievous smile playing at her lips.

“Nothing in particular. He’s _very_ easy to convince if you’re nice.”

Python’s eyebrows raise, but he feels himself break out into a grin. “You’re a devious one, aren’t you? Never would’ve expected the Sister to pull one over on Lukas—or anyone.”

“I didn’t ‘pull one over’ on him,” she says though, rolling her eyes.

“What was his argument for you to stay? It’s dangerous? They need you at camp?” He places a hand over his heart and gives her a pout. “‘Oh, but _Lady Silque_ , who will look after Clair and Gray?’” he mocks, and when she starts laughing, Forsyth pushes himself in between once more, giving him a warning look.

Silque pops her head out from around the side of him to catch Python’s gaze once again, acting as if the green giant was not even there.

“I told him they just need to rest. And then I reminded him of how they ended up like that in the first place,” she says, pausing to let Forsyth help her cross a bit of water. “I told him that if something like that were to happen to all of you, then I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

Python half laughs, his eyebrows rising again as he splashes right through it. “You’re a sly dog! Never would I have thought that you would do something like that—to Lukas! Of all people!”

“Python,” Forsyth warns, slightly pushing him further away from her. “We do not call clerics ‘sly dogs’. You’re being rude!”

“But it’s true,” she says, stopping in the middle of the trail as they both ignore Forsyth’s comment.

He raises a brow as he and Forsyth stop to look back at her not a few feet away. The quiet whispers from the two village kids a small distance behind are the only thing that breaks the silence that’s now fallen over them.

“I wasn’t lying when I told him that,” she says, and she’s looking directly at Python, her gaze so intense that he can’t look away. Her eyes speak and tell him things that neither would dare say aloud in the presence of Forsyth.

They speak and they tell him, _I told you that last night_ , and he knows very well what she means.

The joking stops for a moment as he remembers the night before, stumbling upon her in her weakest moment, listening to her most troublesome worries. So worrisome that she tried to drown them all in the freezing waters of the river that divided the enemy from them.

Python raises his head a bit as he looks at her, and he hopes that she can tell that he does understand. Whether he wanted to or not, he _does_ understand.

Forsyth looks between the two, and then opens his mouth to speak, but Python beats him to it.

“I apologize,” he says, and it causes Forsyth to choke on his words.

She looks him over and silently nods her head, causing Forsyth to look back and forth slightly bewildered—but before he can even ask what’s going on, the two village kids finally catch up.

“Why’re we stopped?” the boy asks, and Python looks at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I know why you’re here now,” he says, looking back at Silque. “But why did we have to bring the _kids_ along?”

Her eyes widen as she notices that they’ve joined them, but her thoughts get cut off as Faye speaks up.

“We’re _not_ kids,” she tells him, narrowing her eyes as she crosses her arms. “And we came along because Lukas asked us to.”

Python raises a brow.

“You’re not kids?” he asks, scoffing as he turns to address the boy. He’s small, pale— and a mage, so not very strong. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” he answers, and Python all but rolls his eyes.

“Fifteen is still a kid,” he tells him and he turns to start walking down the trail again, Forsyth following him as he ushers Silque to move as well.

He hears Faye let out a huff as she and the boy reluctantly follow.

“Well then, what’s the age that you aren’t a kid anymore?” Faye asks, and he laughs, thinking about the flask of ale he has stored in his travel pack.

“When you’re old enough to drink, then _maybe_ I’ll consider you an adult.”

Forsyth chuckles from beside him, but the healer doesn’t, and he can’t help but notice the small frown that graces her face as he does.

 

 

 

The following day, Python finds himself standing at the fabric dealer’s store in the shopping district of a town close to the sluice gate. It was time to get more bandages as usual.

Along with bandages, heavy blankets are being sought after as well. The cold of Rigel is something that Lukas has been worried about since they had arrived at the border, so naturally he demanded that they have some way to fight off the unbearable chill of the night.

But the fabric dealer is searching for the thickest blankets he has somewhere in a back room, and he’s taking far too long for Python’s liking. If he has to wait any longer, he thinks he may just die of boredom.

Forsyth waits patiently beside him though, occasionally looking around at the spools of thread sitting on the counter or the bolts of fabric that line the walls, intermittently commenting on one or two that he finds particularly stunning. Python can only give him noncommittal grunts in response.

“I do hope that the others will be safe,” Forsyth voices his worries, tapping his fingers anxiously against the counter. “I think one of us should’ve gone with them.”

Python rolls his eyes as he plays with the frayed edges of the uncut gauze lying out on the counter, the pure and clean whiteness of it almost blinding. _Just another thing that’ll be thrown away soon_.

“They’ll be fine,” he tells him, though he doubts it’ll ease his worries. “From what I’ve heard, Faye hits pretty hard.”

“Hitting hard won’t help the others that much. Two young ladies and a child? That’s just asking for trouble...”

“Hey, he’s not a child, remember?” he jokes, but it falls flat as Forsyth only frowns at him, so he stands up a little straighter. “You worry too much. Have some faith in them.”

“I know, I know...but we don’t know this town, we don’t know the types who roam the streets!”

“Forsyth,” Python complains, but he doesn’t bother to finish the thought as he spies a pair of metal fabric shears sitting on a shelf behind the counter.

He looks down at the uncut gauze lying on the counter, then at the open door of the back room. He doubts the old man will be back with their blankets anytime soon, and besides—he would be doing something useful for once.

As Forsyth begins to lament another worry onto him, Python reaches across the counter and takes the shears from the shelf, the metal cool in his hand.

He places the fabric shears at the edge of the gauze, not bothering to line anything up carefully, and clamps them down, the gauze cutting smoothly beneath. Forsyth is too busy talking and looking out the window to the street to notice, so Python cuts a whole strip of it. _Who knew it was so easy?_ He chuckles to himself, beginning to cut another.

“Python!” Forsyth hisses, moving back across the room to scold him. “Just what do you think you’re doing!?”

“I’m cuttin’ the gauze, what does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re going to get us into trouble!” he half shouts, fearfully looking towards the back room. “Where did you get shears!?”

Python points across the counter, as he lines up another strip. “They were right there for anyone to use. And either way we’re paying for the damn fabric.”

“Python, we don’t just grab things! Gods, what will I do with you...” he murmurs to himself, running a hand through his hair. “You’re going to ruin the bandages.”

“What?” Python asks, looking up from his work. “They’ll be thrown out by the end of the week anyways, how am I gonna ruin them?”

“You don’t know the size the bandages must be. What if you cut them wrong and then Lady Silque cannot use them?”

Python rolls his eyes. “Stop fussing over it. I’m saving us some time. That old man looks like he can barely walk; I doubt his hands could be any sturdier than mine.”

“It’s not the hands that worry me, it’s the knowledge,” he whines, and Python only gives him a flat look as he continues to cut.

Forsyth comes to stand beside him at the counter, nervously tapping the top of it once again, the snipping of the shears driving him crazy. Python makes sure to snap down with them _extra_ hard so Forsyth can hear them _extra_ loud.

But Python’s work doesn’t last long as Forsyth nudges him in the side, hissing his name as he claims that the old man is coming back. It makes Python start, the shears too close to his finger as he accidentally cuts into the skin.

“ _Shit_!” he curses, dropping the shears down onto the counter with a loud thump. “What the hell, Forsyth?”

Forsyth takes the shears from the counter and chucks them back over to the shelf behind it, knocking over a few spools of thread. The old man appears in the doorway, looking down at the blankets in his hands, and questions, “Will this be enough?”

“We’ll take all that you have,” Forsyth hastily says, and the old man nods as he tells him that he may be able to find a few more.

When he leaves once again, Python let’s out another curse as blood begins to trickle down the finger and the palm of his hand. Angrily, he looks up at Forsyth, who can only look at him with wide eyes before giving him a sheepish smile.

“You bastard,” Python says, and Forsyth quickly apologizes, but he knows that he didn’t mean to do it. He wipes the blood off on his trousers, only to see that he’s cut deep into the skin, and he sucks air in through his teeth. It was beginning to hurt like hell.

“I told you not to play with the shears,” Forsyth tries chiding, but his guilt over the injury is too great to take it too seriously.

Python waves him away, looking towards the door. It would not be the first—nor the last time—that one had injured the other, accidentally or not. So he can only sigh, deciding to go easy on his friend.

“It’s fine. Where did Silque say she and the others were going?”

“Python,” Forsyth complains, once again sounding exasperated. “You can’t just leave right now.”

“Yes I can. I’m bleeding, she can fix it. Where is she?”

“You are not leaving just for that. You need to pull your weight and help me bring all the blankets back to our camp,” he says, and then, looking down, he takes one of the bandages Python had cut and hands it to him.

“Just wrap it up for now and have her look at it later,” he tells him, and reluctantly, Python does as he says. “Healing is very taxing on her; we can’t waste it on frivolous things that could’ve been avoided.”

Python scowls at him, wrapping it around his finger tightly. “You had her heal your rope burn that one time—or were you just trying to hold the pretty girl’s hand?”

Forsyth begins to blush madly, but brushes it off.

“I didn’t know back then,” he says simply, coldly, and Python furrows his brows.

“Didn’t know what?” he asks, but his question is never answered as the old man comes back with a heavy stack of blankets, his free time gone and the cold being a concern once again.

 

 

 

“Python, what happened to your hand?”

Silque’s voice rings out clearly to him even in the middle of the busy square, the bustling noises filling most of the air.

He turns from his waiting spot near the edge of the square to see her and the two village kids with boxes of provisions in their hands. He watches as she carefully sets hers down next to the large pile of blankets they have lying on the floor, and she makes her way over to him and Forsyth.

She takes his hand into her own right away and inspects it, her small hands turning it over, commenting on the fact that he’s already bled through the bandage. She asks again, “What happened?”

“Forsyth threatened to cut my fingers off,” he tells her, and her head snaps up.

“ _What?_ ” she and Forsyth ask in unison, and Python breaks out into a grin as she turns her head to look at his friend.

“L-Lady Silque! You know I would never do such a thing,” he insists, but she looks at him with wide eyes and he turns to scowl at Python.

“Python...why do you say such things?”

Python laughs, slapping his friend on the back, as Silque looks on in bewilderment. Python enjoys teasing people, especially Forsyth because of how easy it is to get a reaction out of him, but she was proving to be just as fun to torment. He likes seeing her eyes go wide and her mouth fall open, and Python finds himself laughing at the sight so fast that she knows he’s only joking before he can tell her. 

“Python’s not very nice, is he, Sir Forsyth?” she jokingly asks, beginning to pull away the bandage from his finger.

Forsyth huffs in response, crossing his arms. “No, he is not.”

“But you’re stuck with me,” Python says, cracking another smile as Forsyth frowns even deeper at him.

“Someone’s got to keep you out of trouble,” he tells him. He looks down at his finger. “But even with me here, you still seem to find it.”

Python wants to roll his eyes, but he’s too busy wincing as Silque pulls away the rest of the bandage, the dried blood sticking to his skin.

Forsyth winces as well, quietly apologizing as he slips away from them to inspect the two village kids’ haul, asking if they had run into any trouble on the way. Python hears them both say no, and Forsyth lets out a loud sigh of relief.

“So what really happened?” she asks once Forsyth is busy speaking to the other two, letting the bandage fall to the cool cobblestone of the square.

“You don’t believe my story?” he asks her back, but she only gives him a flat look as she pulls a flask of water out from her satchel. “It doesn’t really matter. We got your bandages.”

He hisses as she pours the cool water over his cut.

“There better not be any _blood_ on these fresh bandages,” she scolds, looking up at him with a stern expression, but Python can tell that she’s only teasing him back.

“They wouldn’t be very fresh if there was now, would they?”

“I don’t think that I should heal this finger,” she says suddenly. “For not being very nice to Sir Forsyth.”

“He’s the one that did it to me,” he complains, and Silque raises a brow.

She puts her flask of water back into her bag, carefully inspecting his finger once more. He watches her as she studies it closely, grimacing a little as she scratches at the edge of it with her nail, removing the rest of the dried blood.

“You did cut it very deep.”

“Yeah, and it _hurts_.”

“Maybe you should’ve been more careful.”

 _Look who’s talking_ , he thinks, but he keeps it to himself in hopes that she really will heal it with her magic words.

“It’s nothing serious though. It should heal on its own in a few days,” she says. “Perhaps I should just wrap it up in another one of those new bandages.”

He stares at her, his finger stinging as she holds it, and she stares back, that mischievous smile from before threatening to return.

“Back at the priory on Novis,” she says, dropping his hand from her grasp. “The older children would take care of small injuries like this.”

“I doubt they ever had to treat what you do now.”

She moves to the bag of her new clean and pure bandages lying next to the blankets, pulling one out. “Occasionally they did. The pirate scourge out there is truly terrible.”

He raises a brow.

“But we always happily went to them when we had little things like this, and they were always happy to treat us.”

She stands in front of him, taking his hand once again in her own. Carefully, she begins to wrap it around his finger.

“They would even go as far as to ‘kiss’ the pain away,” she sighs wistfully. “But eventually we all figured out they were just whispering the healing spells as they did.”

She pulls the bandage around his finger tight, tying it off with a nostalgic smile. He wonders if she does the same now, when she is back home at her small island priory, telling the younger ones that they’ll be fine as she wipes away tears and kisses their scratches and scrapes like a mother would.

Python doesn’t care if she kisses it so long as the pain truly does go away.

But she doesn’t, and instead she picks up his old bandage to be thrown away. He looks at her, bewildered. Another meaningless thing about her had just been shared.

But her smile as she said it—that didn’t make it all that meaningless did it? Python is unsure of what just happened, but all he knows is that his finger still slightly stings even with her care.

“My finger—“ he says, but he cuts himself off as she raises a brow.

“I’m tired. If it still hurts when we get back to camp, then come see me,” she says, but something tells Python that she knows it will not.

So she turns away from him, that smile still faintly there, and she joins the others as she reports their day to Forsyth. Silque does not think that he needs to see her.

Yet Python still thinks that she knows that he will.

 

 

 

Shrines still make him uneasy, no matter how many they come across during their journey.

They’re old, practically ancient, ruins that remember the early days of the sibling gods. Built after the divide between the two nations was made, and the people of Zofia had decided to follow the Earth Mother and her plentiful bounties, shrines became a sacred place that usually only those of the clergy would be allowed to visit.

Then came the downfall of even more conflict, then the rise of the Mother’s droughts and bandits and thieves, corruption and unsavory individuals who defiled such holy places, and soon the shelters of virtues became shelters for criminals and monsters. But the Mother didn’t seem to care. 

Python once again wonders where she’s been—her children were dying.

But that doesn’t bother Silque. She’s the one that wanted to come here, and of course, Lukas nor Forsyth could not turn down her wish to see the Mother’s shrine.

He knows they are there for that big offering she had wanted to do. He knew the second she reached into her bag and pulled out a full bottle of wine.

He had looked at her in shock, utterly confused for nearly a whole minute, but she didn’t seem to notice as she was too busy being enamored by the sight of her goddess’s statue—the same one that’s in every shrine of hers.

She walks in alone and Python lets her. He has no wish to bear witness to her prayers again, those ghostly whispers coming from her lips and getting lost in the room almost haunting to him. He no longer had any desire to wonder what she prayed for. He already knew.

_A safe journey for wherever fate may take us._

The words echo around in his head just as they had in the seaside shrine. Fate? It’s a fool’s idea.

But he must be a fool as he’s been thinking of it ever since that day and what she said about making choices. Where _would_ he be had he not met Clive, or even Forsyth? Certainly not here, waiting outside one of the many shrines that now seemed abandoned, with people he barely knew waiting with him in it.

And carpentry? The one thing Python hates more than swords is hammers, and he made sure that his father knew it. The day he becomes a carpenter is the day that this silly war ends without a fight.

He supposes none of that matters though, as the choices he’s made cannot be undone and have brought him to now, the present in which he stares at the crumbling ruins of a shrine once dedicated to the beloved and divine Mother of the prosperous Zofia. _The past is the past_ , he reminds himself as she comes out from the heart of the shrine with a blissful expression on her face, _and the past cannot be undone_.

How near and dear does she hold this absent goddess to her heart? Even though she had been held captive, and possibly beaten or violated, in a place so very much like this, she seems to be happiest when she is here, with the Mother. What about the Mother made her that way?

He doesn’t have time to ponder it long as they leave the shrine very quickly, lest they want the terrors to know that they are there.

“We’ll be back with Alm and the others by sunset,” Forsyth announces, and Python can only sigh in relief.

“Was this trip worth it?” he asks her as she takes her spot next to him. She doesn’t bother to meet his eyes, instead choosing to look at the crumbling stone and dirt of the floor, that faint smile still there.

“I feel the light of the Mother’s blessing,” she simply says, and it’s the strangest Python feels yet.

He pushes the feeling and his thoughts to the back of his mind as they begin to make their way back to the border, where a war awaits them. Their sworn enemies since before most of them were born wait just on the other side of it, their tiny camp pitiful and no match for whatever may lie ahead.

But Python doesn’t really care, because that small camp is the closest thing he’ll get to home during this war—and he’ll take what he can get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like....the filler episode of an anime with the first section being extremely long so I'm sorry if that part bored you. We're in Rigel next chapter, so just sit tight.  
> Also when I get comments or see people say that my fics are "well written" I literally start screaming because really  
> ???? I think they're OKAY at best like!!! Thank you so much to everyone for reading, I literally thrive off of it.


	6. a ghostly echo and a heavenly blessing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is very long!! I wanted to get this one out before the Christmas and New Year holidays, but I am worried about the last two sections(as always)-hopefully everyone likes the chapter though!

Python feels uneasy as he crosses the sluice gate’s bridge, leaving his home of Zofia behind as they march into the unknown.

_Rigel is where the hopeless go to die_ , he thinks, and the brisk, cool air of the foreign land does nothing but help prove that sentiment.

Python doesn’t know why he didn’t expect enemy troops right away, but he isn’t completely surprised when they’re engaged in battle not even ten minutes after having entered the country.

The dark haired man—Berkut, he thinks—is there himself along with so many of his Rigelian soldiers, cold eyes and ruthless stares welcoming them into their home.

The battle doesn’t last long at all though, Python can only count three men that he’s downed, but Rigel seems to be full of mysteries and surprises as he sees Berkut pull something small from his side. The ground rumbles in response, and suddenly, Python doesn’t know what’s real anymore as shrill screams begin to fill the air.

Hands sprout from the earth and claw and grab at their legs and feet, and Python momentarily panics, falling back onto his bottom just as so many others do. He looks to the right to see that Forsyth is okay, but his face is ghostly pale as he stands there frozen in fear.

Python feels a hand grip his wrist tightly, pulling it down towards the soil of the earth, and he definitely panics as he sees another wrap itself around his leg. Frantically, he pulls an arrow from his quiver and stabs at the hand around his wrist, but it does nothing as it passes through the specter’s illusion and lands itself into his own flesh. He curses as he quickly pulls it back out, blood beginning to trickle from it, and he wonders if this is how he will die, at the literal hands of some awful Rigelian magic, a man crazy for power controlling them.

But then there’s a flash of light, so bright that it blinds him for a moment, and suddenly the hands are gone, and all that remains are Berkut and that awful lord Fernand, with very few Rigelian soldiers left alive to fight. Python checks to see if Forsyth is still alright, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he sees him still standing there, white knuckling his lance as his eyes grow wide at the sight before him.

Berkut and Fernand retreat, yet Python can feel his hands shaking in their absence as he stands up to brush himself off.

He feels a hand wrap around his wrist once more, though this time it is softer, more gentle in the way that it grabs him—but that doesn’t stop him from hissing as he yanks it out of its grasp. He looks down to see Silque there, a very worried expression on her face. His hands won’t stop shaking. _Will all of Rigel be like this?_

“I know,” she coos, once again reaching for his wrist, and he watches as his blood stains her hands for what must be the one hundredth time, her own hands slightly trembling as she begins to whisper words of healing for him.

For once, the feeling of the soft light of Mila’s blessings is comforting to him—warm, nurturing, familiar—it feels like home, like Zofia.

But he knows that he will not see home for a long time—if he even survives the cruel land that names itself Rigel long enough to return. And because of that, he latches on to this moment, latches on to the words she speaks and the feeling of his skin knitting itself back together under her hands.

They’re barely past the border and he’s already aching to be back home. He hopes the war will end soon as he stares at her eyes shut tightly, her furrowed brow, but he knows better than to hope for things that he knows will not happen.

_Home is far away now_ , he tells himself, _we won’t be back for a long time_.

So he breathes his thanks as soon as her mouth stops moving, and he quickly pulls his wrist away as he leaves her behind, not bothering to look back as his thoughts are too busy being consumed with what lies ahead.

 

 

 

“I suggest we go east. If we rid the land of the terrors in the mountains, we may find the Rigelian public start to support us.”

Python crosses his arms over his chest as he watches Alm think about Lukas’s words. If they wanted to reach their goal faster, the west was the direction to go. But even _he_ can see the thought behind Lukas’s words; they were foreigners to the common Rigelian, and Python can only imagine how he would feel if the Rigelian army had just flitted about as they pleased in the rural parts of Zofia—which they nearly did near the start of this war.

“How far back will this set our plans?” Alm asks, and Lukas’s placating smile falters for the slightest second.

“A week or so, I’m afraid.”

Alm frowns, scratching at his head as he thinks. His army stands behind him no matter where he goes though, and that he knows very well, so they wait for him to decide their fates, which very unsurprisingly lies in two directions—the east or the west.

“What do you think, Clive?”

Clive looks over the army, then to the east, and Alm has his answer before he can even voice it.

“Alright then. What exactly is the trouble that lies to the east?”

“The powerful witch that we encountered during the scouting trip seems to take residence on Fear Mountain,” Clive answers.

“Fear Mountain?”

“Yes, but there is also a shrine on the path up to her home. We didn’t have time to clear it out, so if you want to go there, terrors will most likely be waiting for us.”

“I understand,” Alm says, and Python stops listening after that, his hopes of this war ending soon vanishing as quickly as they had come.

“Fear Mountain is quite the name,” Forsyth says from beside him as they begin to march east. “I have no desire to learn why they call it that.”

“Me neither,” Python sighs, but it seems that he’ll have to dive right into the heart of it even if he doesn’t want to. If that witch is what horribly mauled Clair and her little friend, then he also has no desire to see what ugly tricks she has in store for the rest of them.

“This witch...” Forsyth begins, rubbing at his chin as he thinks. “They say that all of these arcanists and witches give up their souls to Duma himself, correct?”

“I guess.”

“But many of the arcanists that we’ve encountered seem to have some sort of autonomy. I would’ve expected them all to act like...”

“Like that little girl?” Python suggests, remembering how the little mage looked lifeless, already dead as she limply raised her hands to release her magic without the slightest flicker of emotion or mercy.

Python doesn’t realize how loud he’s said it—or how close said mage actually was—as he soon walks into her, her head hitting the bottom of his chest. He stops to take a step back, only to see that she has her arms crossed, a very sour look on her face.

“I guess you’re talking about me then.”

Her brother stops as well to see what’s going on, only to develop his own look of distaste as he sees who she is talking to.

“Hey, Delano,” Python greets her flatly, and she frowns even deeper.

“My name is _Delthea_.”

“Right...”

“Delthea, don’t speak to him,” her brother scolds, and Python can’t help but narrow his eyes at him.

Delthea doesn’t seem to be one for listening though, as she takes a spot on the other side of Python as he and Forsyth begin to walk along again, clasping her hands behind her back and throwing them a troubling smile.

“The Duma Faithful _do_ sell their souls to Duma,” she tells them haughtily, acting as if she knows everything about it—though Python isn’t really sure she should be flaunting that information. “But it’s easier for them to sacrifice the souls of others.”

“So you mean...that is what they were going to do with you?” Forsyth asks.

“Yep,” she replies, giving him a look that resembles something closer to self-pride than the agony and pain she must’ve felt when it happened. “I’m a very powerful mage, you know.”

“Delthea,” her brother warns her again, but she simply ignores him, placing those prideful hands on her hips.

“Not _all_ of the witches and arcanists that we’ve fought so far are auto...autonamo...uh—like you said though,” she says, and her brother can only sigh as he pushes back that fiery orange hair. “It’s mainly witches from what I’ve noticed, but there _are_ those that don’t seem to have a soul still, right?”

“Correct...” Forsyth agrees, and Python frowns at him for indulging this little girl in her knowledge of the enemy. “But why is that?”

“That’s because the witches’ souls are the ones that were sacrificed,” her brother says, speaking up from his spot in front of them. “The arcanists are the ones that control the bodies after Duma has taken the soul. The witches merely do their bidding.”

“If that’s true, then why is everyone making it seem like the witch that lives on this mountain still has some self-control?” Python asks, growing annoyed with all of their babble. “Shouldn’t she be...I don’t know, soulless?”

“I suppose that in a way, she is. But rumor has it that this witch takes young girls and _their_ souls so that she may stay forever young.”

“I heard that she’s over a hundred years old!”

Python frowns at the two as Forsyth’s eyes grow wide. “But you said that they sell their souls to Duma. Why would _she_ have them?”

Delthea shares a look with her brother.

“Perhaps she prays to a different god,” he says, and Python is beginning to get a headache from talk of all of these witches and gods.

“This is unsettling,” Forsyth whispers to him, and Python can’t find it in him to verbally agree.

Did that mean this witch would only attack the young women in their army, preying on their flesh so that she may stay young for just a little while longer? Was Clair her target the day the party had encountered her, and Gray was just unfortunate enough to get in her way?

“How do both of you know all of this?” he asks, suspicious of how she and her brother have found this out from her short time as a Rigelian captive, but Delthea simply rolls her eyes as her brother softly chuckles.

“We do have texts on Rigelian history and theology in Zofia, you know. We weren’t always divided, and people _have_ been in and out of the country. Perhaps you could learn a thing or two from books.”

Forsyth stifles a laugh from beside him, earning him a glare as he remembers lessons with said friend and his father when they were younger. Reading and learning had never been interesting enough to keep him focused for long, so if anything like this was ever mentioned, he doubts he would’ve remembered or even noticed it.

“Whatever,” he lamely says, and he shoos the girl away from his side and back to her brother. “Get out of here, Diego.”

“It’s _Delthea_ ,” she pouts, but her brother pulls at her hand once she does, and that is the last he hears from her for some time.

“None of that made me feel any better about this detour,” Forsyth says once they’re further ahead, the look on his face telling him that he’s scared out of his mind, yet Python doesn’t blame him. They were no longer just dealing with the average foot soldier—now they had to worry about witches and soulless demons too.

“Me neither,” he sighs. “But we’ve got a job to do. You’re not getting cold feet now, are you?”

“I would never!” his friends exclaims, a little too loudly, but Python doesn’t mind as he slaps him on the back, a smile growing on his face even with all this fear building up.

“Atta boy,” he says, and it seems that Fear Mountain will certainly live up to its name.

 

 

 

 

“We’re a day away from the shrine.”

The large fire in the middle of their camp crackles loudly as he watches people grab blankets to tuck themselves in for the cold Rigelian night. Her voice is as soft as ever when she speaks, calm in the way she addresses him with no formal greeting, and Python doesn’t mind as she comes to bother him in his free time.

“Are you nervous?” Python asks, raising a brow as he turns to see Silque sit down beside him.

“Not really...I don’t know...maybe,” she half laughs, tugging at the end of her headdress to pull it down a little further. “I’m not sure how I feel now that we're actually in Rigel.”

“Scarier than you imagined?” he jokes, but she gives him a halfhearted smile as she turns her attention to the blazing fire, the hot, orange light reflecting in her eyes and painting her face the same color.

“No, it’s just weird...” she sighs. “It’s been a long time since I’ve—“

She stops herself, sitting up ramrod straight and stiff as she releases the tiniest of breaths, her eyes growing wide at the sight of the fire. Python frowns as she does this, looking back at the fire as well, but nothing seems unusual to him.

“Since you’ve what?”

She slowly shakes her head, pulling herself out of her odd stupor. “I, uh, forgot what I was going to say.”

Python gives her a skeptical look, but doesn’t say anything because she’s very obvious in the way she hides something. It wasn’t _like_ her to forget, but he doesn’t press her for the secret that she holds—not yet.

“This shrine...” she begins again, tugging at the hem of her skirts. “I wonder what it will be like.”

“A lot different from the Mother’s, I’m sure,” he tells her, and she hums in reply.

“Even though I made the offering to the Mother when we were back in Zofia, I still feel like I should’ve done more.”

“What more _could_ you do?”

“I’m not sure...but it’s just a dreadful feeling. I feel as if I did not do enough. I don’t think we are prepared to meet this...this _witch_ on the mountain.”

Python turns his head to look at her, noticing the way she practically spits out the word as if it burns, as if it hurts.

“What do you know about her?”

“N-not much, I’m afraid,” she replies nervously. “Just that she takes young and beautiful girls and turns them into witches as well.”

“That puts you at a risk, doesn’t it?”

She nearly chokes on her words, suddenly growing even more fidgety, and Python finds it very amusing, nearly laughable in the way that she’s suddenly so easily embarrassed, but she quickly regains herself and shakes her head.

“Everyone is at a risk around her,” she tells him, giving him one of those safe answers that she has perfected. “It doesn’t matter if you have a soul she’s willing to take or not. Either way she will kill you.”

She looks at the ground and he watches as she plucks a single blade of grass from the Rigelian earth.

“Besides,” she practically whispers, rubbing the blade of grass between her fingers. “I think I would rather be dead than without my soul.”

“Isn’t it practically the same thing?”

She pauses, considering the thought. “I’m...not sure. But I know that I loathe the absolute thought of my body being used for someone else’s sick bidding while I can do nothing.”

Python hums in reply, though he’s not surprised in the least. He would expect nothing less from a Rigelian, let alone one who worked in the name of the War Father.

“Scary witches,” he sighs, getting her to turn her head to look at him. “The Duma Faithful. Rigel is certainly living up to my expectations.”

“What else do you think—?” she begins to ask, but the loud voice of another cuts her off. 

“There you are, Python,” it says, and he rolls his eyes at the familiarity of it.

He turns around to look at Forsyth, who squats behind them with a silver flask of something in his hands, greeting Silque as he does.

Python automatically takes the flask from him and tips it back towards his lips with little protest from Forsyth; he frowns as he recognizes the sour taste of wine hitting his tongue, but that doesn’t stop him from drinking it.  He knows that strong alcohol was getting harder to come by, and he doubts any Rigelian bars would be welcoming foreign invaders as patrons anytime soon.

“You two should really be in bed right now,” Forsyth scolds, but Python can tell by the way his words seem looser and his cheeks look slightly pink that he’s already had more than Python will to drink tonight. “You’ll catch a cold out here.”

Python takes another sip from the flask as Silque seems to fall silent, slipping into the background with a small and polite smile like she so often does when others come around. Python doesn’t know why she does it, but he does know that he doesn’t really like it.

So he holds out the flask to her, and her eyes widen in surprise.

“Here. Help you relax,” he tells her. “It’s only wine though, so it won’t help that much.”

Forsyth slaps his arm. “You can’t offer a member of the clergy _alcohol_.”

Python pushes him over so that he falls on to his bottom. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Silque quietly laughs, hiding it behind a hand, but shakes her head at the scene.

“It’s alright, Sir Forsyth. I’m not actually old enough to drink anyways.”

Both his and Forsyth’s head snap up to look at her.

“ _What_?” they ask in unison, and she slightly jumps in surprise at their sudden question.

“How old are you?” Forsyth asks, his eyes wide, and she looks at him slightly confused.

“Nineteen,” she answers timidly, and Python chokes on his third sip of wine. “How old did you think I was?”

“Our age,” he says, wiping at his mouth as he is suddenly bewildered by everything about her.

_Nineteen?_ Surely that was a lie—but then, why should she lie about something like that? She had no reason to, and he doesn’t think she’s really allowed to lie.

“Well...how old are you two?”

“Twenty-five,” Forsyth breathes, and Python can’t help but laugh at the thought of it all as he finishes off the flask, already anticipating all of the new excuses his friend would have for him to stay away from her. “Only three months apart.”

Python suddenly feels out of place as he hears it. Nineteen is the age that they left their village for the first time, searching for work among lords who were willing to let two young men be a part of their forces. That year, the turn out wasn’t very good, so they had returned home before winter came with the promise to continue searching when spring had started to bloom again. 

But she is nineteen now, only a year older than Clair, yet she seems so much more mature than the rest of the kids they have in their small army. He doesn’t believe it, doesn’t _want_ to believe it, because nineteen is not the age for her.

Yet some things begin to make sense. Python had thought that her innocently sweet looks and mannerisms had come from her life in a priory—and maybe they still did—but he finally realizes that she is young, and she has a lot to learn.

But then again, so does he, and it’s with a sad realization as he hands the flask back to Forsyth that this war is their teacher, and they are nothing more than the unsuspecting students who just count the hours and the minutes until they can leave and run home again.

“I guess you two really _are_ close,” she says, breaking his thoughts as she drops her eyes to her lap, and Python can tell that she’s already starting to grow embarrassed from Forsyth’s drunken attention.

_Nineteen_ , is all he thinks, and he finds himself looking at her with what must be a strong intensity, as she looks back at him oddly before adverting her gaze again.

Python figures that she’s had enough of their attention for the night and so he grants her mercy, standing as he pulls Forsyth up along with him. She gives them a questioning look.

“Well, the old man is right,” he jokingly tells her and Forsyth gives her his hand to help her up as well. “We wouldn’t want to catch our deaths out here now, would we?”

She looks confused for only a moment before she gives him that mischievous smile that he’s growing to like. She shakes her head, that smile growing, and Python can only feel his own smile form at the sight.

“Of course not. We have a long journey ahead of us. We wouldn’t want to end it so soon.”

Forsyth lets out an exasperated sigh as he looks between the two, and Python can only laugh as he pats his friend on the back.

“Then it’s off to bed for ol’ Python. I guess we’ll see you in the morning.”

“In the morning then,” she says simply, and she politely bows her head to Forsyth before turning to leave for her tent, hands behind her back as she moves.

Once she’s gone, Forsyth let’s out another long sigh as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why are all of these soldiers so young?”

Python chuckles as he turns for their own tent, the fire in the middle of the camp already dying down. 

“Don’t know, don’t care,” he says, and Forsyth can only grumble in reply as he leads him back to their tent, where warm blankets and a dreamless sleep await them. 

 

 

 

Python thinks it’s the ghostly echoes of every little noise that makes shrines so unbearable.

Their footsteps, their whispers, the sounds of terrors roaming somewhere else, all bouncing off the walls; it’s these sounds that send shivers up his spine, that make him absolutely loathe the thought of ever entering another—but somehow he always finds his way back in the center of them, staring ruefully at the goddess’s statue that lies in the middle.

But Python didn’t expect to see a Mila statue in the heart of a Rigelian shrine.  No, from everything he’s ever heard and seen of the country, they respect and follow her brother, Duma, the War Father, the god of power. Mila and her followers were not something that Rigelians liked—so why was she in a Rigelian shrine?

He looks to Silque the moment he sees the statue, but she is too enamored by the sight to look back at him. Her face forms an expression that holds the purest form of love and admiration he’s ever seen, and Python finds himself furrowing his eyebrows at the sight. Her love for her goddess was so strong, so intense, that he wonders if she holds room in her heart to love anything else.

He frowns as he realizes what he’s thinking, and quickly shakes the intrusive thought from his head. Let her be infatuated with the absent goddess—that was her jobs a cleric, wasn’t it?

Python watches as some begin to silently pray around the room, hands to their chests and eyes shut tightly, the sight of their familiar goddess bringing a comforting feeling. It’s when the others take the time to silently pray to themselves that he sees her walk up to Alm, dropping her voice to speak privately with him, the image of her doing the same with Lukas only a few days before resurfacing.

Unconsciously, he takes a step towards them, but the feeling of a hand around his arm and a sharp pull towards it snaps him out of it.

He turns to look at the assailant and finds himself face to face with Forsyth with a very serious expression.

“Stop it,” he says lowly, voice barely a whisper so he does not disturb a soul in the echoing room.

Python looks at him baffled.

“What?”

Forsyth’s grip around his arm tightens as he pulls Python a little further towards the edge of the room.

“Stop following her around,” he tells him, and Python feels a rush of panic for some unknown reason. “You’ve been doing it all day.”

Python has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing in confusion. The accusation from his friend feels like it came out of nowhere, yet he is not surprised in the least, and he knows the implications that he holds behind it are not true.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asks, but Forsyth can only look at him with not much more than a look of disbelief.

“You know damn well what I’m—“

“Have you been talking to Clair?” Python interrupts, and he finds it hard to keep his voice down, earning him a few turnt heads towards them in return. “Has she been filling your head with those rumors of hers?”

“Python—“

He rips his arm out of his grasp, shaking his head as he pushes his friend away.

“Knock it off,” he tells him, and he no longer cares much about anything that has to do with the shrine, the Mother’s statue no comforting thought to him at all.

Forsyth tries calling his name as he turns to leave the room, but Python ignores him, angry when he knows he should not be. It didn’t make sense—nothing about it made sense; there was no reason for either to be upset.

So Python closes the door to the Mother’s altar behind him and waits at the bottom of the steps leading up to it, letting the damp, cool air of the crumbling ruins fill his lungs.

He knows that both will act as if nothing had happened in an hour’s time, so he sits and he waits, once again longing to be back home where things like this never happened.

 

 

  

“Python.”

His name from her mouth causes his eyes to flutter open, the dim lighting in the room confusing him as he begins to wonder where he is.

The sound of her whisper echoes against old, wet stone, and he blinks a few times as he notices the cracks in the walls, the sound of feet slowly shuffling across the stone somewhere else as water drips in the background. 

He feels her lightly tug on a piece of his hair; he looks up to see her sweetly smiling down at him, and he briefly wonders if he’s died.

But the ache in his neck as he sits up tells him that he is indeed still alive, and that he had just simply fallen asleep on the steps he had been waiting for the others on earlier.

He turns to see her sitting on the one above his, and he feels quite confused as he notices that she’s changed.

But these are not her simple clerical robes—no, these are fancy layers of skirts and ribbons and sashes, satin opera gloves that reach above her elbow and golden bracelets that adorn her wrists, a small chest plate, even silk stockings and armored boots. She looks incredibly regal, almost like a princess, but that old and sacred headdress of hers remains atop her head, ever the same.

His expression must be something amusing as she begins to laugh, hiding her mirth behind a gloved hand.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, raising a brow, but she doesn’t let him answer as she realizes what he’s staring at, her cheeks growing red with embarrassment.

She promptly stands up, nervously pushing her hair beneath her headdress. “You left before I could start the prayers.”

_Prayers_? he wonders. Did prayers give her a new wardrobe, or had she just found an abandoned closet somewhere within the shrine? The thought is almost laughable but his mind feels too hazy to even think to bring it up.

“Come with me,” she beckons, smiling sweetly at him once more. “The Mother has a blessing for you.”

He stares at her utterly dazed.

She sighs as she rolls her eyes, bending down to grab his hand. He lets her pull him up off his step and to his feet, leading him back to the room where the Mother’s altar lies.

Her grip on his hand is tight and warm, the glove soft against his palm, and he watches the back of her head in amazement as she leads him up the steps, the sound of her skirts swishing and her bracelets jingling, her shoes clicking against the stone floors. She seems eager and delighted, so much so that he forces himself to look away from her silly excitement. He makes himself begin counting the steps—one, two, three—but loses track after four as his attention turns back to her, thoughts still somewhat clouded from his uncomfortable nap.

She finally lets go of his hand once they reach the top of the stairs, using both of her own to push open the heavy wooden doors that lead to the statue of her goddess. Though he is surprised when he steps in to see that his comrades and soldiers no longer fill the room, neither lining the walls nor filling the space.

“Come,” she says, motioning for him to follow her to the foot of the statue.

He follows as she asks, but rubs his eyes as he looks around.

“Where is everyone?”

“They’re resting in the rooms beyond this one. Forsyth sent me to retrieve you when you didn’t come back yourself,” she tells him. She turns around as she stands in the shadow of Mila, picking up the healing rod she had placed at the foot of it.

She busies herself with brushing off the rod, with smoothing out the layers of her new skirts. She breathes deeply a few times and speaks to herself—prayers, most likely—and he watches her in silence as she bows her head before her goddess.

Python is only ever able to pick out the words “Mother” and “Mila”, but he supposes he doesn’t need to hear much more than that—it was all meaningless to him anyways.

She turns to face him with her eyes shut tight, and the word that Python is able to make out very clearly then is “Kneel”.

He kneels at her command with little protest, and she takes a step towards him with the healing rod held out in front of her, her lips still moving as she recites prayer after prayer.

“Silque,” he begins, but she holds up a sharp hand to shush him, and so he stays silent as she lays the rod on his left shoulder.

Her voice as she prays holds such a strong conviction and a sound sureness that the girl who questioned whether she would be able to go on the week before now seemed long gone, drowned and carried off with the river’s currents along with the rest of her fears. _The Mother_ , he thinks, it’s the Mother that’s saved her.

It all sounds silly to him; how could a goddess change her mind so quickly and give her the reassurance that she needed just like that—and how could a goddess do all of that without ever being present?

He looks up at her, and all he can think as she spouts out the words of Mila are _Silly, silly girl_.

What has she gotten herself into? What has _he_ gotten himself into?

He’s kneeling before her goddess—something he never thought he’d do—and he lets her pray for him, over him, and he feels uneasy at the thought of it all.

Suddenly, the prayers stop, and she steps away without a word, looking over him with a satisfied look.

“What—?” he begins, but she turns away from him and smiles graciously.

“We found armor and clothing in crates in the back,” she tells him, looking at her gloved hands. “With the Mother’s blessings we can further our skills.”

_Blessings and skills?_ he wants to ask, but she beckons him to follow and join the rest, promptly turning around and not waiting to see if he would follow.

He’s not really sure what this blessing has done for him or for her, but he can’t find it in him to question it any further. He watches as she pushes the doors open to where the rest of the group waits, and he stands by himself in front of her goddess for a moment more. 

He doesn’t like her gloves, he decides then and there, they’ll just get in the way of everything that she does. They’re too white and too pretty for her, the girl who always has blood on her hands, but he thinks that she must already know that.

 

 

 

Pulling back the string of his bow, Python notices that it seems a little easier than normal. His muscles don’t feel as tense as he does, and his arrow seems to fly just a bit farther than it usually would, but he doesn’t worry about it too much.

_It must be a fluke_ , he thinks as he pulls another arrow from his quiver, _there’s no way I just got better overnight_.

He seems to be hitting almost everything he sets his target on though, and most of his arrows are finding fatal spots in the enemy’s armor. He scratches at his head as he pulls out another arrow, calmly setting his sights on one of those creepy and pale mages that seems to be everywhere in Rigel.

He would like to think that his new skill had been from his hard work—but even he knows that he actually has to practice and train to be much better than he is, so the confusion settles in as he releases the arrow and watches it fly through the air fast, only to pierce the mage’s left eye, lodging itself into his brain.

His own eyes go wide as he nearly drops his bow in amazement; he’s _never_ been able to pull off a shot like that before, yet he isn’t sure whether to feel elated or melancholy at the fact that he had to take a man’s life to do it.

He looks down at his hands, bewildered and astounded all the same as he hears someone come near him.

“So you’re finally realizing what her blessings have done,” it says, and he looks up to see Forsyth standing there, a very smug smile on his face.

“Her blessings made me a better archer?” he asks incredulously, laughing at the thought of the girl standing before him as he kneels with those wistful words of hers.

Forsyth nods, that smile growing wider. “The Mother blessed us all, you know. But I do wish you would wear that armor we found for you. Don’t waste her gift.”

Python shakes his head, a dopey half grin crossing his face as he pulls out yet another arrow.

“Too clunky,” he complains, and as he nocks his arrow, he grins widely at his friend. “ _Watch_ this, Forsyth.”

And he does as the arrow zips through the air, hitting another Rigelian man in the neck; Python lets out another bewildered breath as he looks around the battlefield.

Her blessings did this—the _Mother_ did this? He isn’t sure how he feels about it, but the last thing on his mind is thanking the goddess or the servant who had delivered the blessing in the first place. 

All Python cares about now is how easy it is to hit things— _kill_ things—and so he slaps Forsyth on the back as he runs off to teach the Rigelians a few good lessons.

 

 

  

 

“It’s called Seraphim,” she tells him, using a stick to draw the characters out in the dirt for him. “It’s a holy and pure magic that can dispel terrors.”

“Seraphim,” he repeats, and he watches as she draws out a few more characters.

“The other is called Nosferatu. That is the one I told you about before.”

“Nosferatu,” he repeats again, and the name sends a chill down his spine.

He knew very well what that one did.

“When did you learn this Seraphim spell?” he asks her, not really sure when he had ever seen her use it before the last battle.

“The prayers in the shrine,” she says simply, drawing more characters in the dirt. “The Mother blessed me with the knowledge of a spell that usually only priestesses and saints know. Normally it would take years to master, but because of her, I know it as simply as I do my healing spells.”

Python gives her a skeptical look from the corner of his eyes, but doesn’t say anything.

She smiles as she writes out her own name, placing her chin on her knees. She had taken off the fancy clothing she had found in the shrine, and had instead opted to keep to her normal clerical robes.

“Normally, the elder sage at the priory would put a cleric through rigorous training for years before he would ever consider making her a saint. Her knowledge of the Mother’s teachings and her spells must be great.”

She pushes out her foot to erase her name from the earth, starting over as if to practice her handwriting.

“When I return home to Novis, I think the elder sage may anoint me as one,” she says, her voice sounding just the tiniest bit excited. “I truly don’t deserve it, but if the Mother thought I was ready, then I just might be.”

He frowns at her, softly sighing as he watches her write her name again.

“You really believe the Mother gave you all of that knowledge?” he asks, still skeptical of her so called blessings. “No strings, no catch? She just gave you all of that for nothing in return?”

Instead of getting upset or taking on a frown, Silque smiles, ever so slightly, and erases her name once more.

“I know you don’t _want_ to believe that the Mother has done anything for you, Python,” she begins, and he drops his eyes to the ground to watch as she begins spelling out _his_ name. “But I also know that you _have_ been feeling the effect of her blessing.”

He raises a brow. “What makes you say that?”

“Sir Forsyth told me how amused you seemed to be when you could suddenly make nearly every shot you take.”

She turns her head to give him a sly smile, and he can only look at her with an unamused face. Of course Forsyth had told her.

“You could be a sniper now if you really wanted to” she continues. “Your new skill is a gift from the Mother; you don’t need to give anything up to her in exchange.”

Python gives her a hollow laugh, but simply shakes his head, suddenly wishing he had never let her pray for him. He wanted nothing to do with the Mother, and he certainly did not want to feel indebted to her whether he actually was or not.

“With my new skill, I can actually be of use on the battlefield. Terrors will be no match for me,” she says, allowing herself to sound proud, even if it’s only for the moment.

“Don’t wear yourself out,” he tells her with a sigh, looking over to see her concentrated on the name she has written. “You know there’s only one of you.”

“There may be only one of me, but I know now that I can do it.”

She turns her head to smile at him, and Python takes a deep breath as she lets the stick drop from her hand, that self-doubt now seemingly long gone.

Blessings, new skills, reassurance—her goddess has seemed to give all of this to her, and yet he still doesn’t seem to get it. What was so great about a goddess that was never there?

But her smile as she begins to talk of her spells once again casts aside his doubts for the moment, so he keeps his mouth shut save for the few times when he repeats the names of those spells, the sounds feeling foreign on his tongue. 

 

 

  

It’s her nervous demeanor that throws Python off when he watches Clair walk into the room; hands clasped behind her back, eyes to the floor, and the fact that she calls out to _only_ him is all too suspicious.

“May I speak with you alone, Python?”

Python feels his brow furrow as he gives her a distrustful look _._ He feels Forsyth shift uncomfortably next to him, and sees Lukas frown ever so slightly.

“Is something the matter, Clair?” Lukas asks, but she simply gives him a sweet smile and shakes her head.

“No, there is just something I wish to discuss with him,” she says, and she motions for him to follow her.

He throws his cards into the center of the table knowing that he wasn’t going to win anyway, and reluctantly, he gets up and follows her out.

He watches her blonde hair swish across her back rhythmically with her steps, and he follows her a few more feet before she turns to give him a very angry look.

He glares at her. She glares back.

“You mustn’t tell Clive about Gray and I,” she says suddenly, and Python looks at her like she’s lost her mind.

He blinks, his glare falling, and then—then he laughs, unable to stop himself like he normally can. She frowns deeply at him, stomping her foot into the ground as she does.

“It isn’t funny, Python,” she scolds, folding her arms across her chest. “I’m being serious.”

“What do I care if you’ve got a thing for Gray?” he asks, the laughter still coming in between words.

“I know you’ve got a big mouth. And I don’t want anyone to know about this.”

His laughter dies down as he notices her pout, her eyes turning to face the floor again. He takes a breath, steadying his amusement as she waits for his agreement to her demand. He pauses, taking in the sight of this very unusual Clair.

“Forsyth was there too when you started talking about him.”

She sighs, kicking at the dirt. “Yes, but I think you know as well as I that Forsyth seems to be...quite daft in areas like these.”

He feels himself slightly frown.

“Are you _ashamed_ that you like a commoner?”

Her face begins to turn red, her pout grows, and Python has to stop himself from nearly laughing again.

“No,” she says, though he isn’t quite convinced. “I’m just not sure...how I feel about him yet.”

“Then what’s the big deal?” he asks, and she turns her eyes up towards his, a very sour look growing on her face.

“‘The big deal’ is that things like _this_ don’t happen. I’m supposed to marry a man as great as my brother,” she tells him, a very unusually upset tone to her voice. “But now? Now I’m feeling things I shouldn’t for a boy that I would never have even known existed had it not been for this—this _stupid_ war!”

She gives him a very irritated ‘ _hmph!_ ’ as if he should know all of this and he’s suddenly very, very annoyed, all thoughts and feelings of laughter now gone from his mind. Why was she yelling at _him_ about her foolish teenage feelings when he had nothing to do with them? He had no advice for her, and even if he did, he isn’t sure he would even give it to her.

“I _don’t care_ , Clair,” he tells her, and he watches as a look of shock crosses her face, though he isn’t sure why she would ever be surprised at his words. “These aren’t my problems. You wanna talk about these kinds of things, then you go to Lukas. _Not_ me.”

She scoffs, her whole body seeming to bristle as she gives him yet another one of her distasteful looks.

“I’m not asking you _what_ to do _,_ ” she practically spits out, a very familiar bitter and cold feeling that reminds him of a different noble sinking in with her words. “I’m simply asking that you do not tell my brother about this until I sort everything out. And the gods only know what awful advice _you_ would give me.”

She seems to get even angrier as she finds a way to turn it on him.

“I’m sure a feral cat would give me better advice than you ever could,” she continues, and she goes on and on like that for a minute or two, and Python simply lets her.

“You would never understand this plight,” she says, and Python stays silent as she carries on, like he’s learned to do around the nobles a long time ago.

His head hurts from her voice, and he wishes his biggest worry in life was whether or not he would be able to love someone that wasn’t in the same social class as him. _Foolish_ , he thinks, and he can only shake his head as he stands there and watches her get angry.

But he doesn’t blame her. She’s young, and though he often wishes that she would act like the adult she technically is, he _can’t_ blame her for giving in to the raw and passionate emotions that come with being young. It was a part of growing up, and he knew that she had a lot of it to do.

“Lady Clair,” a gentle voice breaks the long winded speech though, and he watches as Clair stiffens up, eyes growing wide as she realizes with embarrassment that she’s been caught.

She looks at the ground ashamed as Python turns to see Silque standing there, a very troubled look on her face. She doesn’t speak, but simply takes a step towards them instead.

Anger no longer paints Clair’s fair face; instead she looks defeated, ashamed, as she drops her hands to her sides and lets out a shaky breath.

Python knows she will not apologize—and he does not expect her to.

She gives him an uncharacteristically pleading look before she turns on her heel and walks away without even an utterance of goodbye, or acknowledgement of the healer.

Awkwardly, Silque stands next to him as he watches Clair’s form retreat for some odd moments before she finally clears her throat.

“She seemed...very angry with you,” she speaks up, and Python can only sigh.

“That’s normal for us,” He tries giving her a smile, but her worried look won’t go away. “We often butt heads.”

“I’ve never seen her that mad before...” she says, a very tired and considering tone in her voice. “She must care deeply about Gray if she’s gotten that worked up over him.”

He raises a brow. “How did you know we were talking about Gray?”

He watches her eyes go wide as she begins to fumble over her words.

“I just—“

“It’s fine,” he tells her with another sigh. “Thanks for saving me from that, I guess.”

She gives him a bewildered half smile, a small noise of confusion escaping her lips as he thanks her.

They stand there as they once again let silence fall over them, but Python is not sure why neither moves to leave. He peeks at her from the corner of his eye, and he notices how she bites at the tip of her thumb nervously.

He suddenly remembers that they are set to meet the witch that lives on the mountain tomorrow—and so he quickly speaks to try and forget.

“How did you know about Clair and Gray?”

She looks up at him, then quickly averts her eyes, the ground suddenly seeming more interesting.

“I’m not...I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone this but...” she pauses, her eyes flicking up to look back the way Clair had left. “The day that she and I came across you and Tobin—”

“Yeah?”

“I was on my way back to camp with the fresh laundry when I saw her in the woods with Gray.”

He feels his eyebrows raise.

“You _saw_ them?”

A blush paints her cheeks as she stares hard at the ground.

“Nothing scandalous!” she quickly assures him. “But she noticed that I had seen them, and made me promise not to tell a soul.”

“So it’s been going on for a while,” he muses, and he can only imagine what her brother will think when she finally confesses to him.

“You must be someone she trusts,” she says after a moment, tugging at a strand of her hair. “I only know because of coincidence.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes at the absurdity of it.

“I only know because the two nearly got themselves killed.”

She looks up at him guiltily, and Python automatically knows he’s said the wrong thing—he always does.

“She only speaks to me when she wants something,” he quickly adds. “She told me not to tell Clive.”

“And instead we’ve told each other,” she thoughtfully says, and her worried face starts to ease up. “Were you two like this before Alm and the rest of us joined the Deliverance?”

He laughs, quite a few memories of the early days of their army resurfacing.

“It was even worse then. We couldn’t stand each other.”

“What changed?”

He thinks about it for a moment, but can find nothing in those memories that suddenly made her seem less annoying or bratty than she was when they first met.

He shrugs. “I’m not sure. I’m just glad she doesn’t come around to bother me like she used to.”

And before he can even finish his sentence, the realization hits him.

_It’s Gray_.

The village kids seemed to be good for one thing at least.

Silque finally giggles as she sees him think hard about it, hiding her mouth behind a small hand.

“Either way, I’ve had enough of her for one day,” he says, feeling a chill run down his spine as the cool Rigelian air begins to settle in. “I’m heading back inside.”

She hesitates for a moment more before nodding, looking back towards the tent he had come from, where Lukas and Forsyth await his return.

“Then I will not keep you,” she says, rubbing at her arms. “Though do try and get some rest sometime tonight. Tomorrow is a very big day.”

He sighs once more before giving her a mock salute, the promise that he might listen to her request falling through the air.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” he says, and he turns and leaves her without a second thought, the only troubling thing being the questioning stares he receives when he reenters the tent.

He’s got a bottle of wine with his name on it hidden under his bedroll, and he knows that she won’t like that.

But it’s the only way he’ll ever convince himself to fall asleep when his own death hangs over his head, so early in the morning.

 

 

 

He didn’t expect the witch on Fear Mountain to be _rich_ —he didn’t think that stealing souls had any real monetary value to it.

But they reach the peak where she lives and a _mansion_ of all things looms over them, the look not so inviting.

“Python,” Lukas says, and he claps a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be drawing out the enemies near the front of the house while the main group goes around the back.”

“So I’m the bait?” he jokes, raising a brow as he folds his arms over his chest, but Lukas seems unamused.

“Clair and Kliff will be in your charge,” he tells him, a very tight tone to his voice. “You know to keep them both safe, no matter what. Do not stray too far from the secondary group.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Python waves him away, but Lukas gives him a patronizing look.

“Make sure they have provisions and plenty of vulneraries with them. You will not have the healer within calling distance.”

“Whatev—“

Python’s next jab gets stuck in his throat as the last of Lukas’s command settles in.

He blinks in confusion, and Lukas looks at him a little startled as he stands here quietly, processing it.

“She’s not...”

“Her new skills that the Mother has blessed her with will help the main team greatly,” Lukas explains, unconsciously running a hand through his hair. “The scouting party suggested that this witch has many cantors and terrors under her command.”

Python lets out a short breath before fully realizing what he means.

Maybe it’s selfish of him to think so, but he is not happy about it. Sending her in as offensive rather than her normal background role—it was idiotic in his mind, especially since she was the only healer.

They’ll lose the war if they lose her, that is all he can think of as he looks around.

“Where is she?” he demands, but Lukas’s pleas for him to return to his group fall on deaf ears as he pushes past him to find her with the main group.

She’s back in those pretty skirts and gloves that she had found in the Rigelian shrine, speaking lowly with Gray and Alm about something that must not be of great importance; she has a small smile on her face, a knowing look in her eyes.

He marches right up to all three of them—with Lukas following close behind as he warns him to stop—but he directs his attention to Alm anyways.

“You can’t throw her into the front lines like that,” he says harshly, and Alm looks up at him bewildered, a choking sound coming from Silque.

 "Python!”

Alm laughs nervously, his brows furrowing in confusion, but his voice remains steady all the same.

“She’s best suited to deal with all of the terrors,” he tells him, but Python will have none of it.

“And what will you do if any of you get hurt?” he asks. “She can’t heal and fight at the same time.”

“Well—“

“And what if she gets hurt? Who will heal her?”

“Python,” she warns, placing a hand on his arm, but he pulls it away from her touch. “I appreciate the concern but it’s unneeded—“

“We’re _all_ dead if she dies,” he says, and he barely notices when Gray starts to back away from the group slowly, though that has not stopped others from listening in.

“We won’t let her,” Alm retaliates, and Python can tell that he’s growing annoyed with the conversation.

“This is unbecoming of you,” Lukas says lowly from behind him, but he shrugs it off as he turns to her then.

“You think just because the Mother ‘ _gave_ ’ you a few more ancient words to recite that you can handle everything yourself now?”

She opens her eyes wide, her mouth opening to speak, but then she pulls an expression he never thought he would see on that pretty face of hers.

She looks at him with a deep anger—maybe even hate—and he watches as she clenches her fists tightly closed by her sides, her hands slightly shaking with the feeling.

“The Mother blessed me with this so that I could _help_ everyone further,” she says, a very unfamiliar bitterness in her voice as she looks at him with disgust.

“It’s suicide. You’re easy pickings for these—these _things_. And that witch—“

She scoffs, shaking her head as she bites the inside of her cheek.

“You are  _not_ my keeper,” she says, but he figures that she would rather say much worse to him in this moment.

“No, but it seems that I’m the only one that sees what’s wrong with this situation.”

“There is nothing wrong with Alm’s plan, only with _you,_ Python.”

He lets out a harsh laugh, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck as he looks at her astonished. _Was she really this crazy?_

“So you’ll just throw your life away for his?” he asks, and he sees a flicker of something else cross her face for the slightest second. “Just because he asks?”

“If the Mother wills it, then yes,” she says, dropping her voice. “But that isn’t what’s going on—“

“ _Gods_ ,” he laughs again, and the others look at him as if he’s gone crazy. “Is that _all_ you think about? Mother this, Mother that! Stop throwing yourself into danger to save everyone else. Save you gods damn self for once!”

“ _Python_ ,” Lukas scolds him, his voice taking on a deadly tone. “That is enough.”

But both ignore him as she sputters, grasping for the words to say he wrong, racking her brain for _anything_ to throw back.

“Whatever,” he scoffs, not even bothering to spare her a second glance as he gives up. “See if I care if you get turned into a _witch_.”

The noise she makes then is startling, she sounds as if she’s been choked, and that angry expression falls away to reveal something even worse; she looks up at him, recoiling as if he’s slapped her, and thinking on it, he might as well have.

He’s already spat out and cursed everything she truly cares for—yet he doesn’t know why.

Why should he care—why should he _bother_ with caring? He tries convincing himself that it’s purely selfish, that he’s only thinking of how to keep himself alive for as long as he can, so that he can return home soon, but something else picks at the back of his mind and it’s starting to drive him crazy.

_I’m an idiot_ , he thinks, closing his eyes with a sigh.

He figures he’s done enough damage, and turns on his heel to walk away from the mess that he’s made.

“Python,” she rasps out, and her voice drips with a desperation, a plea for him to come back and tell her that he’s simply joking—but she knows that he won’t.

_Why do I care?_ he thinks, as Lukas and Alm and Silque all call out for him, but he ignores it, trying to clear his mind as he prepares himself for the coming battle.

When he reaches his side of the battlefield—and his two charges for next few hours—Clair greets him, as if she hadn’t just been yelling at him the day before.

But he cuts her off at her salutations, searching through his bag to give her and Kliff every single vulnerary that he has.

“Just get on your horse and be ready to go,” he tells her, and he sees her frown, though she doesn’t bother to correct him.

He sigh to himself, cursing everything that he can as he double checks his quiver, the small knife at his side, his bow—anything to busy his hands and not his mind.

_Let her die_ , he thinks harshly, and the thought already begins to sting. _It was gonna happen anyway_.

So he picks up his quiver and shoulders his bow, telling Clair and Kliff to keep an eye on each other as he uses himself as bait, putting on a show for the whole world to see as he proves to himself once again that no one—not even she—is invincible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first played through Nuibaba's abode, it took me three tries because I either never bothered to reclass units, or because they didn't have enough EXP to reclass. Silque and Alm ended up being the only units left when I finally did beat that map and I was so done with the game at that point that I just said screw it. I also think that I either didn't go through the shrine right before the Nuibaba map, or I just skimmed through it, because I literally spent an hour the other day checking and rechecking wikis and forums to see if there really was a Mila statue in the shrine (which if there isnt actually-too bad there is now). 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading, and if you like this fic then PLEASE go read shadowdance's Python and Silque fic called "heal those weary bones" I'm still crying just thinking about it.
> 
> Happy Holidays!


	7. a fond reunion and unsaid apologies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, uh, does anyone else get embarrassed from their own writing because I know I sure do! So!!! I'm!!!!
> 
> This is a week late (I try to upload every 3 weeks), but I hope you will enjoy it!

 

“Have you any injuries?”

Python looks to his left to see the Deliverance’s newest member there, a healing rod in her hands and a smile on her face. Her hair is long and slightly tangled, her white skirts and opera gloves dirtied from the cell she had been kept in, but even he can see through the grime that she is very beautiful—and that is why he is not surprised that they had found her in the witch’s abode.

Wordlessly, he pulls up his sleeve to reveal to her three long gashes from the claws of a terror along his forearm. She makes an empathetic face of pain as she brushes a piece of her hair behind her ear.

“Quite a nasty thing,” she says, pulling his sleeve up even further to inspect it. “But it’s an easy fix.”

Normally, he doesn’t mind the thought of being healed—he doesn’t imagine anyone that would even think to reject it. But here, he is wary of her as she grabs a hold of his arm with one hand, placing the healing rod across it with the other. This is a Rigelian healer, with Rigelian magic—he isn’t sure how it will feel compared to that of the Mother’s, and the years of prejudice concerning her country far outweighs his desire to not think about it.

She must feel his muscles tense beneath her hand as she blinks, looking up to give him a reassuring smile before she closes her eyes to recite the words of healing.

He’s not familiar enough with the language of magic to be able to tell whether they are the same as the Mother’s, but he strains his ears to try and figure them out anyways—it’s all in vain though, as he’s too busy turning his eyes away from the glowing light to concentrate too hard on it; he’s never been a fan of the unnatural concept of magic.

But the magic _feels_ the same—warm, comforting, familiar—and when she pulls her hands away, it looks as though he had never even been in battle, so he doesn’t see a reason to complain too much.

“All done!” she says, and he takes note of how quickly she was able to heal him. “My name is Tatiana, by the way. I was asked to make rounds and check up on everybody. Lukas told me that you’re severely understaffed with healers.”

He snorts, rolling his sleeve back down over the newly mended flesh. “That’s an understatement. We only have one healer.”

“Silque, right?” She smiles, rubbing at her forearm timidly. “Such a sweet thing. I don’t know how she’s been able to keep up with all of the injuries everyone must get during battles. Why, she was so relieved when she saw that I was a healer that she started crying!”

“She did?” he asks, and the night at the river begins to resurface in his mind, and then how she seemed to be doing okay after the blessings from her goddess. But even she was so relieved to see someone who could help her that she had started crying in front of others? Python is glad he did not see it, but he wishes now that he never knew of it.

“It’s not like she bawled her eyes out or anything,” she assures him. “Just a few tears...it’s completely understandable if you ask me though. Poor thing must be constantly stressed.”

 _Another understatement_ , he thinks, but then he wonders how much of that stress is because of him. Coming to her drunk, berating her goddess—yelling at her about everyone dying right before meeting the fearsome witch certainly did not help.

“Well, now you get to share that stress,” he tells her, and she gives him an amused smile.

“She’s the one that sent me to check on this side of the mansion, but she asked that I seek the man with blue hair and another girl out specifically.”

“Faye?” he guesses.

“Mhmm,” she hums in reply, looking over her shoulder. He sees the village girl standing in the hall arguing with Tobin and Gray, but nothing seems out of the ordinary with that. “Everyone here is so young. I didn’t even think that Alm could be the leader of your group.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “The younger they are the more fighting spirit they have I guess. Just wait until you meet the little mage.”

Her eyes narrow, a questioning look growing on her face. “And just how ‘little’ is this mage?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “She can’t be much older than eleven or twelve.”

“Oh my,” she sighs, placing a hand over her heart. “I must find her immediately then. I’ll leave now, but please come to me if you need anything else.”

She moves to leave, but he knows there is something that must be done. He loathes the absolute thought of it though; he curses himself for getting into such a big mess of trouble.

“Actually,” he says reluctantly, and she stops, turning to face him. “If you see Silque, will you tell her to come by here? Only if she’s done with her job though.”

“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow, but quickly smiles. “Certainly. She’ll be happy to know that you and Faye are both safe.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, and he watches as she walks off to find the little mage named Delthea, that long, virescent hair swishing across her back as she does.

An hour goes by before he even sees her on his side of the house though.

He’s roamed up and down the hall and the two corridors it branches off into several times, so much so that he thinks he could walk the walls and the stone floors in his sleep—though he truly has no desire to ever remember this place, even in his dreams.

But eventually she does come; as he’s about to turn the corner back into the main hall for what feels like the one hundredth time, he sees her walking down the stairs, Forsyth by her side as they talk to each other with a quiet intensity. Python balks, stopping to hide himself behind the corner of the wall as he watches them.

Forsyth does not look happy. She just looks tired.

He can only imagine the scalding words Forsyth will have for him, so he looks around the hall for anywhere to hide, any place that will save him from being scolded for just a few more hours. He sighs with relief as he sees an alcove in the wall that leads to a vacant room, and he moves to stand in it instead, stepping out of view.

He can hear them quietly whispering to one another as they reach the bottom of the stairs, but the noise from all the other soldiers makes it near impossible to pick out what they’re saying. Either way, he knows it isn’t good.

Though the whispers soon stop; he holds his breath as he hears footsteps approach his place in the hall, counting them out until they’re nearly right next to him.

He watches as Silque alone walks by his alcove with no idea that he’s there; he’s so relieved that his friend has parted ways with her—most likely to search for him somewhere else—that he reaches out from the darkness without thinking to grab her by the wrist.

She yelps as he pulls her with him into the vacant room, quickly shutting the door behind him as he nudges her further into it. He places his back against the wooden door, and she looks up at him with wide, wide eyes, a frightened look on her face.

He stands there awkwardly, silently; he has no idea what to do, all thoughts of what he would say to her gone from his head now that she stands in front of him. He struggles to find anything to say; it’s very unusual and infuriating for him to be this speechless. He was never short on words.

“Are you injured?” she pushes out first, her body stiff and unmoving from its spot. “Tatiana said that you sent for me.”

He shakes his head, and he slowly moves away from the door. Her eyes dart back and forth between it and him, as if she’s looking for an escape, and so he sighs.

“Listen...” he starts out slowly, but he already knows that he’s got her attention. “I just needed to apologize.”

Python can’t even remember the last time he’s had to apologize and sincerely mean it. He’s unforgiving with his words, doesn’t mince them and doesn’t like to, but even he knows that sometimes he goes too far with them. Forsyth is used to it, but she is not.

Her shoulders seem to relax when he finally speaks though, and she quietly moves to the wooden table in the center of the room, laying her hands out flat against the surface of it.

“Are you apologizing because you regret what you said?” she asks him quietly, staring down at the table with a very serious face. “Or are you apologizing because you were wrong in your worries, and now you look like a fool?”

He bites the inside of his cheek because he knows that his pride will not allow him to tell her what she wants to hear. So he stays silent, and watches as she sighs without looking at him.

“Do you understand how your words made me feel?” she asks, and her voice oozes with a pain that shouldn’t be there. When he stays silent still, she pulls a chair out from the table and sits in it, her hands falling limply into her lap.

 _She must be tired_ , he automatically thinks as he moves to do the same, but he can’t even make himself look at her as he does. Tired from the battle or from the trouble he’s caused her, he isn’t sure which.

She sighs again, rubbing the sides of her head with her gloved hands. “Do you...only think of me as the healer? Or are we not even friends?”

It makes him look up at her, only to see that she is looking down at her lap. Timid and unsure, she plays with her fingers restlessly. He looks down at them as well, surprised to see that they are only dirtied, and not at all bloodied.

“I didn’t mind your worries at first. But then you started getting angry with Alm, and then with me, saying such—such _things_ that shouldn’t be said.”

"Sorry," he says without thinking, but even he can tell how forced and fake it seems, how he sounds like a schoolboy that’s been made to apologize. Slowly, she looks up at him, and the jolt of surprise that he feels when her eyes meet his is unwelcome and uncomfortable.

She shakes her head, breaking the short eye contact quicker than she had made it, and so he frowns.

“Look,” he says sharply, causing her head to snap back up. “I’m not going to sugar coat it for you, and I never will.”

Her head involuntarily jerks backwards, stunned by his sudden forward demeanor.

“You, along with everybody else here, know as well as I that we really are all dead if you’re gone.”

She looks away in what he thinks might be shame, wrinkling her pretty new skirts beneath her hands as she presses her fingers into them.

“And maybe it’s different now that we’ve got this Tatiana girl with us, but even still, we’re a long way from being comfortable with the amount of injuries we get.”

“I know...”

“If you know this, then why are you so surprised when I say it?”

She frowns at him deeply, moving her arms to rest on the chair.

“You’re—you’re too blunt!” she says, her eyebrows furrowing. “I know everything you said is true, but do you not realize that it all weighs heavy on my mind already? I just wanted to help rid us of the witch, but you made everything seem so frightening and hopeless.”

“Always had a problem with that,” he mumbles, mainly to himself, but she simply lets out an exasperated sigh, resting her head in her hand as she looks towards the window on the far side of the room. Night has already fallen.

“But you’re words stung the most near the end,” she says quietly, and the word _witch_ echoes around inside his mind. “I...I didn’t expect you to say that.”

Neither did he, but he had and there was nothing that he could do to change that now.

Apologies seem useless to him; was there really a need for them? It makes him feel awkward and ugly, and he wishes that she would just get over it so that he doesn’t have to suffer from the feeling of being wrong—or the feeling of being an ass.

But he knows that she needs it—and so does Forsyth—so he must if he ever wants to be in anyone’s good graces again. Because _everyone_ is looking out for the healer, and _everyone_ already knows what he’s done to her.

He shakes his head at the thought of Forsyth yelling at him. Maybe he was right in telling him to stay away from her.

“I don’t regret what I said to you,” he tells her suddenly, pausing as she looks at him with that frown still there. “But I do regret making you upset with the last thing. I...didn’t mean to say that.”

She looks him over for a long, silent moment, considering him before she finally lets out another sigh, though this one is lighter, more relieved than the rest. Her features relax with the sound, and he does as well, only now noticing how tense his body was. 

“The truth is, I forgave you the moment you walked away,” she says quietly, averting her gaze once more. “I understand why you said all of it—even if you didn’t mean some of it.”

He blinks, staring at her as she peeks at him from the corner of her eye.

“But I can only imagine all of the horrible things that you would’ve said had it been Forsyth you were worried about.”

He lets out a small, bewildered breath, and then—finally—he laughs, breaking the thick tension of the air that’s been suffocating him from the moment he had pulled her in there. He is relieved to see her fighting to hide a small smile, covering her lips with her hand. He’s relieved that she doesn’t want to kill him.

“I can only imagine what _he’ll_ say to _me_ once he finds where I’m hiding. I saw how angry he looked when he came down the stairs with you.”

She gives him a sympathetic look, dropping her hands back into her lap. “Sir Lukas already told him about it.”

“I would’ve expected nothing less. We’ve made quite the fodder for gossip, haven’t we?”

“Maybe _you_ did,” she says. “But among what he said to me, he threatened to kill you.”

“That’s nothing unusual.”

“You don’t care?”

“He likes you a lot,” he says, and her brows furrow. “I think he sees himself as more of a knight if he can protect the fair young lady from the dangers of the world.”

“And you are one of those dangers?”

“He seems to think so.”

“I thought you were best friends.”

“We are.”

“Then why do you fight so?”

He shrugs his shoulders, slouching down further into the chair to rest his hands against his stomach. “That’s just the way we are. Don’t you have friends back on your island or something?”

She seems to think for a moment before slightly shaking her head. “I’ve never had a friendship like yours and Forsyth’s.”

He rolls his eyes, but notices that she’s suddenly started to fidget with her hands again, pulling at the seams in the fingers of her gloves. It’s a nervous habit that’s always pulling his attention towards her.

“Though...is that why you got so angry with me?”

His eyes widen a bit as he raises a brow. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she starts, running her hands down her thighs to smooth out her skirts. She looks to the side, a sheepish grin on her face. “You say that you and Sir Forsyth fight all the time because you’re friends. But you care about him so, and he seems very dear to you despite that; I’m sure you would be just as frightened for him if he were in my position.”

He feels himself start to frown as she pulls at the edge of her headdress. He doesn’t answer.

“Do you...” she begins nervously, unable to meet his gaze, but he has an idea that he already knows where she is going with it. “Care for me like you do Forsyth?”

 _It’s different with her_ , his mind automatically tells him, though he isn’t sure exactly how yet. He doesn’t care for her like he does Forsyth—he doesn’t think he cares for her at all.

He has no ties to her like he does with his childhood friend—they’ve only met each other just a few months ago, and he can’t think of a time where he’s ever felt any of the same camaraderie that he so often feels with Forsyth. He didn’t go looking for a fight with her out of plain boredom to see the amusing face she might pull—he didn’t mean to start anything at all. She’s not like Forsyth so he doesn’t treat her like him either. Certainly the idea that his blood was constantly on her hands didn’t make them any closer than they should be—did it?

Though a part of him still fights for her to stay safe, and that part insists on telling him that it’s still only selfish. If she stays alive, then so does he.

But before he can open his mouth to even tell her this, he hears the wooden door behind him being pushed open, swinging a little too hard as it hits the stone wall. He sees her jump in her seat, eyes wide as she sees the intruder.

“ _You_ ,” the voice angrily says, and Python can only let out the biggest sigh as he slouches even further into his chair.

As Forsyth makes his way towards the table, Silque quickly stands from her seat, waving her hands spastically in front of her as she steps in between the two, their words getting jumbled together as they try to talk over one another. Forsyth is asking her to realize what Python has done, Silque asks that he understand that he’s done it _for_ her. Python just feels as if both are wrong.

But eventually he knows he’ll have to face the repercussions from not only Forsyth, but Lukas, and maybe even Clive as well—though Python doesn’t really mind. He knows he deserves it.

So he sits there and he waits for them to realize that they’re not getting anywhere, and eventually Forsyth convinces her to leave them be for a while, to which Python stays quiet, only giving her a silent nod that things will be alright for him. 

With a worried face, she reluctantly leaves the room, but Python knows that she’ll be waiting just around the corner for him when the scolding of a lifetime is over.

 

 

 

“Python?”

It’s in the middle of an unusually cloudless day on the Rigelian plains that he hears her voice ring out. He thought it’d be a good idea to pull a crate out from one of the tents near the edge of camp to sit on, letting the sun warm him the best that it can through the cold Rigelian air as he sits and tries to restring his bow.

He ignores her though, thinking that perhaps she’ll go away on her own if he does, but when she draws closer and calls to him once more, the bow string slips from his hands. He turns to give her a displeased look.

“Such a sour face doesn’t suit you,” she teases, but her smile quickly fades as he leans down to start over.

“I’m a little busy,” he tells her, but that doesn’t stop her from coming to stand next to his crate. He takes a peek at her from the corner of his eye, not surprised to see her in her usual robes and headdress.

“I haven’t seen you around for nearly two days,” she says, holding up two fingers to emphasize the point. “You’re almost always busy doing something else—or talking with someone else.”

“What’s wrong with that?” he questions her, raising a brow.

“Nothing at all,” she tells him, moving to nudge her body up onto the backside of the crate where he can’t see her—only hear her. “It’s just a bit unusual from the man that would rather hide from his duties in a medical tent than face them head on.”

“Missing me already?” he asks with a playful tone. She gives a short laugh.

“Just a bit,” she replies, that teasing tone coming back. “Even though Tatiana is there, it feels weird to not have you around to complain.”

“I don’t complain that much.”

“Maybe not...but I also miss hearing the absolutely _sordid_ gossip you bring to me.”

He turns his head to look at her, but can only see her legs kicking at the skirts of her robes as she swings them lazily.

“Why, I have never brought you any sort of sordid gossip, _my lady_ ,” he says, turning his attention back to the bow. “It’s simply deplorable that you’d ever think I would.”

She laughs, pulling her feet up onto the crate to wrap her arms around her legs, but the laughter is short lived as she takes on a more sober tone.

“Tell me though,” she implores, voice quiet. “Why haven’t I seen you around these past two days?”

He sighs, wondering if he should tell the truth—the scolding he had gotten was harsh.

“Lukas and Forsyth told me to stay away from you,” he tells her, putting on a fake pout. “They’re such bullies, depriving poor ol’ Python of his friends. What jealous bastards.”

He hears her let out a small breath, and he sees her grip one hand with the other as she pulls on her knees tighter.

“They were really so upset about what you said to me that they told you to stay away?”

He frowns, playing with the bowstring rather than trying to fix it. It was half true—but he doesn’t want to tell her anything about the conversation the three had.

“Yeah,” he says, and he finishes restringing his bow, though he doesn’t take his eyes off of it. “They think I’m a distraction as well.”

He can practically hear the frown in her voice when she says, “I told both of them that I wasn’t upset or mad at you. But to stay away...how childish.”

He snorts. “You’re tellin’ me.”

“I’m surprised you actually listened to them though,” she says thoughtfully, and Python’s eyes widen.

“I can be a good soldier every once in a while.”

“But such a command as this—giving up gossip and a safe haven because they told you to? It’s very unlike you.”

“Oh, is it now? I didn’t know that you were an expert on my behavior.”

“You’ve been around long enough that I’ve got _some_ sort of grasp on how you usually act. I was just a little worried is all.”

He lets the bow slip from his hands and into the grass, turning his body so that he can see her, that slightly mischievous smile greeting him.

“No need to worry about me, kid,” he says, and he watches as that smile slowly slips away to reveal a small frown.

“Are you planning on carrying out their order for the rest of this war?” she asks, and he raises a brow. “You’ve already broken the rule by talking to me now.”

“Only because you forced me to.”

“What will you do if you get hurt?”

“Tatiana’s here now.”

“What if she’s busy?”

“I’m sure a vulnerary could hold me over until she’s not.”

Her frown deepens, but a more thoughtful expression quickly takes its place.

“Did she heal you back at the witch’s mansion?”

He nods.

“Let me see.”

He holds out his arm and pulls up his sleeve for her. There’s nothing _to_ see.

“She was faster than you are at it,” he tells her, and that frown comes back. She pushes his arm away, and he chuckles as he pulls back down his sleeve. “Why do you care?”

“I...just wanted to see how good she was.”

“Well most of us are still up and breathing so that should be a pretty good indicator.”

“Maybe you _should_ stay away from me,” she suddenly says with false displeasure. “You’re growing incredibly _rude_.”

He finds it in him to chuckle, glad to see that nothing he says to her could ever keep her down for long. But he sighs as he must stop the conversation, not wanting to spend too much time away from camp before certain people came looking for him.

He stands up from the crate to stoop down and pick up his bow, but he turns to find that she’s looking at him expectantly.

“And maybe _you_ should head off before either of them finds us and I get into trouble. _Again_.”

“Am I the one getting you into trouble now?” She raises a brow, leaning forward over her legs. “I think it should be the other way around.”

He frowns at her, but nods his head back towards camp, a silent warning to listen to what he says.

She gives him a fake pout, but reluctantly hops off of the crate too, dusting off her robes.

“I will be very upset if I do not see you soon, Python,” she says, and he looks over at her to see her looking back at camp, arms crossed over her chest. “If they have a problem with you coming to me, then they’ll just have to get over it.”

He feels a devilish grin creep across his face. “Such words will get you into trouble if you’re not careful.”

She turns her head to look at him, and he is happy to see that mischievous glint in her eyes, that knowing smile on her face. It’s a look he’s coming to like very much.

“What will they do to me?” she innocently asks before turning to walk back to camp. She stops after a few steps to look back at him once more. “I _will_ see you later—won’t I?”

“We’ll have to see,” he says, but it must be good enough for her as she turns away, her smile unable to escape his sight before she does.

  

 

 

 

They’re nearly to the sea when they’re attacked by two Rigelian generals near the edge of the plains—though Python isn’t surprised in the least.

He _is_ surprised when the new healer pushes his arm that holds his bow down with an incredible force, and he looks at her with an incredulous stare. Before he can even open his mouth to ask what the hell she’s doing, she leaps in front of him, running across the field towards the general he was aiming at.

The general, upon noticing the girl running towards him, freezes upon his horse, and Python can’t make himself pick his bow back up to try and aim again as Tatiana nearly trips on her skirts, lifting them up as she runs along and begins shouting at the man. 

“Zeke!” she cries out with a wild desperation. “Ezekiel!”

The general then hops off his horse, taking a small step forward as his lance drops to the ground at his side. His horse whinnies uneasily, but he doesn’t seem to notice anything that’s going on around him as he continues to watch the girl running towards him.

“Ezekiel!” she cries again, and Python looks around to see several others watching on in confusion as well. Was this Rigelian cleric turning traitor on them already?

The confusion doesn’t last long at all though, and Python watches on as the general himself begins to walk, then run towards Tatiana, only stopping when he collides with her body, wrapping one arm tightly around her waist as the other hand goes up to grasp at her hair. He realizes then that this is the lover she had mentioned offhandedly to him a few days before.

Python’s never seen anyone cling to another person with that kind of hopeful and disbelieving desperation before. He suddenly feels as if he’s intruding on something he should not be seeing, a secret meant for only them to know.

He feels that way even more so when he sees the two split for only the slightest second before they kiss, and Python looks away then, finally deciding to pick up the bow that had been knocked from his hands. He doesn’t mind the tawdry gossip and scandalous stories, but even he knew how to recognize when something wasn’t meant for him to see or hear, and so he looks away, as ornery thoughts begin to pick his mind.

He can’t remember the last time _he’s_ kissed someone. It had to have been at least near the start of the war—but that was months ago. Had it been at a bar, with the maiden that was working there? Or a servant at the Zofian castle, right before they had been chased out of it and into hiding by the traitors who had sold out to Rigel? He supposes it doesn’t matter much now when he should be more worried with preserving himself rather than kissing quick strangers. 

“He’s decided to turn his troops against the other general in our favor,” Lukas says, suddenly stepping up beside him from somewhere else. “Our new orders are to eliminate the other half of the battalion.”

Python holds back a sigh as he simply nods. It doesn’t matter all that much who they want him to aim his arrows at; he just knows that he should get it done. Things are easier that way.

So he moves on, just like he always does, because things are just easier that way.

 

 

 

 

Her cool fingers gently press into the skin of his calf, and he can’t help but hiss as he watches her kneel in front of him, her thumb ghosting along the edge of the open wound on his shin. 

“How did you get this?” she asks with a raised brow, and he can only shrug his shoulders, the source slipping his mind.

“Those Rigelians are nasty things,” he tells her flatly, noticing the way the corners of her mouth tilt down ever so slightly.

“So you got it in battle.”

“Sure didn’t get it from lying around.”

She glances up at him sitting on the edge of the cot, the look on her face telling him that she is unamused. He gives her a sly smile.

“It’s not a good thing if you don’t know where your wounds came from,” she says, and she stands from the floor of the med tent to retrieve the rag and small pail of water on the other side of it, politely stepping around Tatiana as she deals with someone else.

“Well, I _know_ I got it from the last battle.”

“But you do not know exactly how you got it?” she asks again, kneeling before him once more as she begins to clean the wound, making him wince at the contact. “Not whether it was the slash from a lance or a sword? You do not even remember the face that has wounded you?”

He sighs, rolling his eyes as he lets his shoulders slump forward. The cool water stings against the wound, but he knows better than to complain about the pain too much now.

“You are an insouciant man, Python,” she continues, stopping her work to look up at him. “But I do not think that you would let someone get away so easily with slighting you.”

He notices then how tight his jaw is clenched, how his teeth have started to grind.

“Maybe I wanted to show some mercy.”

“You’re a proud man as well though. I’ve never seen you show mercy to any of our enemies unless someone is ripping the bow from your hands.”

“You’ve been watching me on the battlefield enough to know such a thing?”

Her eyes flick back down towards his leg, her fingers now wrapped gingerly around his ankle. “It’s my job to keep an eye on everyone. You know that.”

“But you like to keep an eye on me the most, don’t you?” he teasingly asks.

He watches her smile ever so slightly, dipping the rag back into the water, dried blood stripping itself from the cloth as she does.

“Don’t think so highly of yourself,” she teases back, running the rag over the wound again. “I’m beginning to think that these wounds you get are just an excuse to see me, if you cannot even tell me how you got them.”

“An excuse?” He scoffs, pausing to push back the hair in his eyes. “I promise you, my excuses would be much better than hurting myself to see you.”

“Then you need no excuse to come to me,” she says and her voice drops to a conspiratorial tone as she stares intently at his leg, her hand stopped above the wound. “You just can.”

“Miss me that bad?” he laughs, and he sees her roll her eyes.

“I have never once missed _you_ ,” she tells him, contrary to a different thought she had told him not long ago. “But perhaps I do enjoy your company. Only sometimes though.”

“Only sometimes,” he repeats in a whisper, but he chuckles at the thought of her missing him anyways.

Lukas had found a way to keep him busy and away from her, their meetings together growing scarce, but Python wasn’t worried about it—he knew it wouldn’t last long anyways.

He leans forward and reaches down to tap the bottom of her chin though, and she looks up at him with a smile so sweet that the thought of his wound is long gone, the sensation of the rag against his skin no longer there.

“I have to heal this quickly,” she says, and for the first time, Python is able to take in the small details of her face, how deep a gray her eyes are, and how for so long he thought them to be blue. She looks so content, so lively and suddenly oblivious to the world now that the memory of how empty and bleak her eyes look when she casts her magic is just that—a memory. “There are others waiting to be healed.”

He looks away from her to glance around the tent and at the few people who are in it. Tatiana tends to Luthier for a shoulder wound with Delthea peeking out from around her to watch the process carefully. Tobin and Faye and Kliff stand near the entrance talking quietly to one another, and Lukas is not far from them with a slight scowl on his face, surely ready to give them a scolding to last the day.

The new general, Ezekiel, stands in the corner by himself, tall and menacing in his appearance as he keeps an eye over his lover and her work, and Python can tell that the mage she’s working on has noticed his stare as well, the fearful look on his face as he glances between her and him very obvious. Tatiana doesn’t notice though, she’s too busy trying to concentrate on the wound as Delthea talks her ear off, the dull babble of her mouth not making much sense to him.

“Is it bad enough for magic?” he suddenly asks her, and she thinks for a moment before answering, pushing the pail and the rag away from her.

She sighs, already placing her hand over his wound as she says, “Yes. It’s deep enough that I’ll use magic for it.”

And she closes her eyes and recites her words of healing, the familiar feeling of his skin knitting itself back together beneath her hands a comforting one—though he can’t help but think that she’s rushing through the words more than she normally would.

Just as quickly as it had started, it is over, the warm and tingly feeling from the magic fading away and no longer buzzing throughout his bones. She stands, once again moving across the room to place the pail and the rag somewhere else.

“All done,” she says, holding her hands out in display as if to say _ta-da_! “Now you have to leave.”

He raises a brow. “Have to? I thought you liked having me around.”

She places one hand on her hip, giving him a false frown as she hands him back his boot from the floor; when he grabs it from her, she holds onto it, leaning in closer so that he can hear her sudden whispers.

“What did Sir Lukas call you?” she asks innocently enough, but Python knows better than to trust it. “A distraction to my work?”

He holds back the urge to scoff at the thought. She gives him a devilish smile as she pretends to check his arms for wounds.

“He’s right over there, you know.”

“Which is why you must leave now,” she tells him. “I’ve got others to tend to. You wouldn’t want to get into trouble like you so often do now, would you?”

“Alright,” he sighs with a roll of his eyes, and he promptly stands, shoving the boot back onto his foot.

“Faye,” she calls out once he’s near the entrance to the tent, and Python watches from the corner of his eye as the village girl drags Kliff with her over to the healer.

“Python,” Lukas says suddenly, making him stop in his tracks.

Python doesn’t say anything, but instead just waits for it—whatever _it_ may be.

“Forsyth was looking for you,” he says, and Python lets out a small breath. “He said that he wanted your help for something.”

“Okay,” Python says, somewhat relieved, and Lukas leaves him to join his kids now talking with the Silque, a surprised yet horrified look on her face.

 _Those damn village kids_ , he thinks, but for once, it is with a small smile and a lazy chuckle.

 

 

 

There’s little noise coming from the open doors of the church in the small, seaside village. A warm light spills out from it and onto the dirt streets of twilight, and Python isn’t sure what compels him to walk up those stone white steps and past the large wooden doors, but he does.

Hundreds of candles decorate the inside—he’s never seen so many lit at one time—but there’s so much going on that he isn’t sure where to look. The stained glass windows? The old wooden pews? Perhaps the few members of the clergy, all dressed in white, that sit scattered about those pews as they quietly pray to themselves. It’s been such a long time since he’s been in a church, and never a Rigelian one—though he does think it looks just like that of Mila’s.

But eventually, his eyes land on the very back row of pews, those closest to the door, and the one clergyman that’s sitting in it near the aisle. More notably, the short blue hair that hangs just barely past the old headdress.

He silently walks towards her, stopping next to the pew to see that her eyes are not closed in prayer, but half open and staring at her lap instead. She doesn’t notice him.

He reaches out and gently tugs on a piece of her hair, her head snapping up with wide eyes as she realizes who he is, and silently, she scoots over so that he may sit with her. He obliges, and together they sit in silence for some odd moments, listening instead to the sounds of the church, of boots clicking against the stone floors, the turning of brittle pages in old books, the whispers of clerics and priests alike, all echoing around the large room.

“Have you come to pray?” she whispers, keeping her eyes to the front, staring at the priest that’s up near an altar, flipping through loose papers.

He feels himself let out a small breath, shaking his head as he looks her over. She has a very serious expression on her face, her fingers are limp and unmoving in her lap, there’s a quiet and steady tone to her voice. He tilts his head at her, but then shakes it instead.

“This is Duma territory,” he whispers back, and he watches as she bites her lip, her eyebrows furrowing at such an obvious statement. “You don’t look like your praying yourself.”

“We have to be careful,” she tells him. “We’re worshippers of Mila in a country that follows the war god.”

He thinks that he is no worshipper of Mila, but he keeps the thought to himself.

“Then why are you here?” he asks, pulling down the sleeves of his tunic. “In a place where we’re not wanted?”

Her eyes flick towards him for the slightest second before she sets them back to the front again. “This is the monastery Tatiana lives in. She insisted that I look around.”

But both know that she has no real interest in looking around such a place, whether it was a familiar thing or not. She’s keeps to herself in the back and only looks towards the front because of who she worships. Was she scared to be here? Or was she just disgusted to be in a place where the enemy of her goddess was worshipped?

“It looks a lot like the churches in Zofia,” he mentions, and he watches as she tilts her head ever so slightly.

“Things were not always so violent,” she whispers, voice dropping even lower. “Valentia used to be united. I guess this is just a remnant of a time long gone.”

He frowns at her somber words, at her melancholy mood, the devilish grins and knowing looks from the med tent now stuck in the past. 

“Though I suppose we may soon be united once again. We’re going all the way to the capital with this war.”

“That means more work for you,” he says, and finally, she turns her eyes away from the clergymen near the front, and she looks at him fully, a sad and small smile crossing her face.

“In the end, I think it will be worth it,” she says, letting out a small sigh. “Sacrifice is made with great causes like this. Sometimes...there is nothing we can do to change that. A friend lost, an enemy made—it’s what happens in times like these.”

“So what will you do when you finally realize you can’t save everyone?”

That sad smile falls to a tender frown, and she drops her eyes, looking down and away once again.

“It’s a sad realization that I’ve already had, Python, and it’s one that you keep reminding me of. We will lose people in this war.”

He nods his head, leaning back against the pew. “The Mother can’t save them?”

“The Mother cannot save any of us now.”

He raises a brow. “Not even you?”

She shakes her head, that sad smile coming back. “Not even me. I’m the first to go in the name of Mila.”

“You’d die if she asked you to.” A statement, not a question.

She nods solemnly, but both know there was no need for him to say it—it was obvious in the way she carried herself.

“Perhaps you do not understand why. You sounded so upset when you said it back at the witch’s house.”

He stays silent as he watches her begin to play with her fingers nervously from the corner of his eye.

“She was a mother to me when I no longer had one,” she says, and it’s Python’s turn to look away for the fear of over sharing. “I would repay her in any way that I could.”

“That’s quite the debt to pay.”

“Indeed,” she sighs. “But I don’t mind. I never did.”

Python isn’t sure what to say to that. Dying for a goddess? He’s never understood why anyone would put another life at a higher value than their own, it’s absurd, but he keeps his mouth shut and hopes that the day never comes when she has to repay that debt.

And a mother when she didn’t have one? Python knew she grew up on the island priory, but he had never given her childhood, or her family, any sort of thought before. But she was an orphan who had replaced her real mother with Mila; things suddenly start to click in his mind, the air around her suddenly much more clear, though the fog in her head and around her heart seem to remain.

Silence falls once more—though it isn’t for long, as she soon opens her mouth to speak before he can even think to.

“Why did you come in if you don’t pray, Python?”

He turns his head to look at her, surprised to see that she is looking back.

“We’re finally in a town that doesn’t mind half the Deliverance loitering in their bar,” he answers her. “I was going to go drink.”

“That doesn’t answer why,” she says, but he doesn’t have an answer for her. He doesn’t know.

“Does Sir Lukas or Sir Forsyth know you are going out?” she asks instead, and he finds it in him to roll his eyes.

“Yes. They’ll be there to keep an eye on me. In fact, they’re probably already there, wondering where I am.”

Another small smile crosses her face, though the melancholy of the room doesn’t do it justice. “I’m sure they’ll be surprised to know that you were in a church the entire time.”

He almost laughs out loud before he remembers to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself. “They’ll call me a liar. And then I’ll drink and it won’t matter what they say.”

She lets out another small sigh, and Python doesn’t like that he’s become used to seeing her frown so much; they’re never too deep, only slightly sad, but he knows that he cannot do much to fix it.

“I ask that you do not come back drunk.”

He feels his eyebrows furrow at the request. It’s been awhile since he’s done it, and he figured that all of the times he’s helped her with the laundry or around the medical tent, that maybe she wouldn’t mind a few more times.

He doesn’t answer.

“Just...do not drink too much. Alcohol does you no good. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of Tatiana if she’s in the tent...”

He frowns at her, at the thought, and she quickly averts her eyes, but—reluctantly—he agrees.

“Okay,” he says, and he wonders if he’ll be able to keep a promise like that, if he’ll even bother to try and remember it. “I’ll try my best.”

Her own frown slightly deepens, but she nods anyways, her lips parting as if to speak once more, but nothing comes out.

He stands from the pew and she looks ahead, towards the altar at the front and the clergyman standing there, not praying and not speaking. So he tugs at a piece of her hair.

“Don’t stay here too late,” he says when she looks up. “Get back to camp before it’s completely dark.” 

She stares at him without saying anything, but she nods her head anyways, watching him as he leaves her in the church, his tall figure stepping out into the twilight streets of the seaside village.

 

 

 

He broke his promise—that is the first thought that crosses her mind when he comes stumbling into the medical tent.

Though she knows he never really promised anything—she knew that although he didn’t seem to care much about what he said, he still planned things out carefully in his head, knowing which words to pick so that no one could ever bring them back around to try and bite him.

She had come back before dark like _he_ asked her to, and she hadn’t even said anything when he did. But he had never promised her anything—though she wishes that he did.

It’s normal though, even if it hasn’t happened in a while. He comes in or one of his two friends drags him in, and they ask that she looks after him, or heals him, or just makes sure that he doesn’t do anything too outrageous. It makes her feel like a babysitter sometimes.

But the situation had turned out in her favor. By threatening to speak with Sir Clive about his drunken habits—to which she still feels the tiniest bit guilty—she had been able to get the lazy Python to help her out; laundry, bandages, simple things. And with that she had gotten to know him.

He’s sarcastic and cynical and lazy, but beneath that, he hides something away that she’s trying her best to figure out. Under all of that she likes to think that he is someone who is kind, caring, maybe even a little compassionate, but he was proving to be tough to crack. Every time she thought he was starting to show that hidden side, he seemed to realize it as well, and shut it back up.

She hates it when he does.

Python has always scared her a little when he comes to her drunk though. He is most unpredictable when he does; so very unusual and unlike himself, she can’t help but feel anxious and cautious around him when he is.

And although he is unpredictable when intoxicated, his few drunken habits haven’t changed. The small giggles, the loose words—she is just thankful that he hasn’t had enough to drink on this night that he’s started crying.

“Tatiana’s not here,” he tells her with a cheeky grin, and she looks up from her work to see him standing in the entrance of the tent. She quickly stands from her workspace to usher him in, grabbing him by the wrist as she does.

The scent of alcohol is thick on him, and her nose involuntary scrunches up at the smell of it. It reminds her of her time in a shrine with a few less than savory men.

“She stayed in town,” she tells him, though she knows that no matter what she says to him, it won’t mean anything while he is drunk. “With General Ezekiel.”

“Lovers,” he sings, and the word and the memory of the two kissing in the middle of the battlefield makes her slightly blush. “I bet right now they’re—“

“This way,” she quickly interrupts, feeling her cheeks heat up even more at the thought of it. She pushes him towards his usual cot, and he sits down with a laugh.

She starts at the sound of him yawning loudly when she turns to get the usual glass of water, and she quietly curses him for making her feel so anxious, so tired.

She gently places the water on the crate beside the cot, and it’s only when she sets it down and looks at him does she notice the purplish bruise on his left cheek.

Her eyes widen at the sight, automatically placing a hand against it as he slightly winces from the contact.

“Python!” she exclaims. “What on earth did you do?”

He gives her another cheeky grin, pushing her hand away as he begins to laugh again.

“I got punched,” he says as simply as if he’s talking about the weather.

“By who?”

He shrugs his shoulders, but the smile doesn’t go away. “Dunno. They’re gone now.”

She can only sigh as she silently prays that whoever he has angered does not have friends who will come looking for the man that’s upset him. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if she has to heal more injuries from a silly _bar_ fight.

She places her hand over the bruise once more, pinching his ear when he tries to push it away, and begins whispering the words of healing. She’s spoken the spell so many times in the last few months alone that she wouldn’t be surprised in the least if she had started to whisper them in her sleep.

She knows that she should save her energy for more important injuries—a bruised cheek was nothing to fret over—but she figures there would be a tough scolding for Python if Lukas or Forsyth had seen him with it first. Though they were the ones that were supposed to keep an eye on him at the bar—or maybe that had been a lie he’d told her.

Her left cheek begins to ache as she finishes up the spell, and carefully, she removes her hand from his cheek to see the skin smooth and clear, free from any pain and purple bruises. She can’t fight the small smile she feels crossing her face at another job well done.

But the spell has made Python drowsy, and his eyes begin to flutter shut—though he’s always fought hard against the call of sleep when it does. So she pushes his shoulders to lie back against the cot, and he hardly protests as she does.

He grabs her hand and pulls it away from his shoulder, only to have it rest on his chest; she can feel his heart beating dully against her palm, and her own heart pounds against her ribs as he looks up at her with those sleepy, half lidded eyes—he’s _always_ been unpredictable when he’s drunk.

“Don’t let Tatiana outshine you,” he says suddenly, and had it not been for his hand holding hers down, she might’ve recoiled several feet away from him. “I’ll always be rooting for you.”

She chokes on her breath as he says it, wanting to know why he would say such a thing in the first place, but his hand falls limp and she’s able to pull her own out from its grasp and she knows then that she’ll never get an answer; he won’t remember anything in the morning and even if he did, he would deny it vehemently.

Her hands slightly shake as she holds them to her chest and she moves back to her workspace, her head filling with all sorts of thoughts as his words echo in her mind. She feels herself frown at the distracting feeling that he’s caused.

 _Please do not come back drunk_ , she thinks to herself, imagining a conversation with him in the morning. _I beg you to please not come to me drunk._

But she knows that he’s not one for listening, no matter how much one begs, so she pulls at her hair as she tries to shut the thoughts out and continues on with her work, the late night candles calling to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I try to focus mainly on Python, but writing the little Silque section was very refreshing and I think it's what I needed. I no longer know what is in or out of character for these fools; it was easier to tell in the beginning when they were first meeting each other because it's the closest to the canon material that you can get as they don't actually interact in game. I just hope I do their characters justice and things are still at least somewhat believable. 
> 
> Either way, thank you to everyone that read and comments!! It means the world to me and really encourages me to try and better my writing.


	8. tall trees and tattered cloth

_What will I do if I die?_

The question has been haunting him lately, keeping him up at night when he knows that a month ago the thought of dying would not have bothered him all that much. Dying was nothing big to fret over, as it happens to everyone in the end.

Yet he already knows the obvious answer to the question; there is nothing he _can_ do if he dies—he’s _dead_.

That doesn’t make him feel any better about the thought though, as a new and more troubling one begins to pick at his mind.

_How will I die?_

An absolutely bloody death, that he is sure of—or, at least, it’s what he’s hoping for. To go out in such a horrific way, that’s the only suitable way to go. No one wants to die a _boring_ death.

But he knows it won’t be heroic in the least, and if anything, it will be mere unfortunate coincidence. If fate was planned by the gods, then his would be bloody, but not spectacular, a mere causality from getting caught up in someone else’s affairs.

It isn’t until he hears the small sigh that he realizes he’s awake and even thinking these things and not dreaming them, and it’s then that he realizes that he’s staring at the canvas of a tent, the small and dim light of a candle bouncing off of it.

Slowly, he sits up in the cot to see the back of Silque, wrapped up in a blanket and hunched over her workspace, her hands moving slowly in front of her as she works on something small. 

He only now notices how her hair has grown just the tiniest bit longer since he had first met her, that short blue hanging just barely past the headdress when it used to be hidden by it.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asks her, his mouth working much faster than his mind.

He watches her jump, her back straightening at his voice, and slowly, she turns her body to him, a very troubling look on her face.

It’s an indecipherable expression—was it exhaustion, confusion? Or maybe even fear. 

“You’re awake,” she says dumbly, eyes wide but voice steady. He lets out a small breath of air.

“What time is it?” he asks, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his body feeling sore and stiff as he pushes one leg off of the cot.

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just simply stares at him with those wide eyes and a confused sound comes from her mouth; it’s only when he awkwardly clears his throat that she seems to snap out of it.

“I don’t know,” she says quietly, finally reigning in the expression on her face, settling for that neutral one she seems to favor most. “It’s most definitely past midnight.”

He scratches at his head, taking a look around the medical tent. He should’ve known that he would end up here.

“Are you...” she begins, but stops when he looks at her, suddenly growing timid in his presence.

He scoffs.

“I think I’m sober enough now.”

She silently nods her head, and he’s all the more confused as she slowly stands up from her workspace, wrapping the thick blanket around her shoulders tighter. He watches her do this, and then he watches her as she takes one step towards him, towards the cot, and then another, and another, all the way until she stands at the edge of it, looking down at him with such a curious expression.

He’s somewhat thrown off by it, anxious that she’s going to do something completely unnatural and unusual, but he simply continues watching as she cautiously takes a seat on the edge of the cot next to him, not taking her eyes off of him.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says, frowning as he sees how heavy her eyes look. “Why aren’t you asleep? Or in your own tent for that matter.”

She tilts her head slightly, considering the question before looking back towards the entrance to the tent.

“This practically _is_ my tent. I was going to leave...but then you came in.”

His frown deepens, and he strains his eyes to see her features in the dim lighting, the candles behind her casting her fair face into the shadows.

“You didn’t think that I just leave you here alone when you come, did you?”

He did.

He never gave much thought to the fact that she was always there in the tent when he woke up from his drunken stupors, never considered that she had stayed the whole night to keep an eye on him. Did she do that for everyone that stayed there? Or was that a special thing saved for the drunken idiots?

“I’m a big boy. I can handle myself.”

“You are also a drunk boy—and no longer a boy,” she reminds him, a slight smile touching her lips, but it quickly slips away. “You’re so...so...I do not like you when you are drunk.”

His breath gets caught in his throat, and he struggles to keep the awful sound of confusion that tries to escape his lips there.

She looks at him sadly, her eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, and he knows that he’s done something bad.

“You’re so hard to deal with sometimes.”

He feels his own brow furrow, taking in such honest words.

“What do I...” he tries to ask, confused and worried by all the things he might’ve done to her.

She looks him over for a good minute, shifting her weight on the cot before he sees her small and pale hand emerge from the veil of her thick blanket to nervously push back some of that blue hair beneath her headdress.

“Saying such things that should never be said,” she repeats, a thought that must be on her mind all too often. “I’ve begun to wonder if there’s truth in the words that a drunken mind speaks sober thoughts.”

Python wants to frown at her for not being forthcoming now, that blatant honesty from a few moments before now suddenly lost to the midnight air.

“You stumble and you cry and you sometimes just—“

“Alright,” he interrupts, suddenly no longer interested in his habits, and no longer interested in trying to get her to tell them. “I get it. I’m a horrid man when I’m drunk.”

She falls silent at his words though, and once again turns her eyes to the floor, down and away from him.

“I wouldn’t say horrid,” she mumbles, her shoulders slouching forward. “It’s just—I don’t know. It’s hard.”

“If it’s so hard, then don’t let me in here.”

“If I don’t take you in, then who knows what kind of trouble you might get into.”

“I’m sure Forsyth could deal with me just fine. He used to before you came along. He should’ve never brought me to you in the first place.”

“You came on your own this time.”

He sees her lips form a pout, and although there is a very endearing look to it, he knows better than to revel in it.

“If Tatiana stays with us until the end, then maybe she’ll take care of it instead.”

Her head snaps up to look at him.

“I don’t think Tatiana would tolerate it.”

“Then why do you?”

She blinks, letting out a small breath instead of a retort, and he knows then that she’ll never turn him away.

The thought is nice, comforting even, but it just reminds him that she is too kind—and kindness like that will simply get her killed.

He sighs for her, lamenting their supposed fates. If he were to die a bloody death, then he guesses that she will be the one covered with it. Those beautiful white robes—such an awful color to wear for a war.

“I shouldn’t tolerate you,” she suddenly says, and he raises a brow. “I never should have, but I do.”

That slight smile comes back.

“I don’t know why I do,” she says, and she scratches at her head in a very thoughtful manner. “Do you?”

“Haven’t the faintest idea, my lady,” he replies, his breath getting caught again. “You’re a holy saint to me when I don’t deserve one.”

She lets out the smallest laugh for him then, her eyes closing as she allows the smile to widen, and he truly has no clue as to why she’s tolerated him for so long.

What was in it for Silque? He knew why he stuck to _her_ —she’s the healer who will save him—but other than help with simple things like laundry, what was he really good for?

“You smell disgusting.”

He jerks his head backwards as that awful noise of bewilderment finally escapes his throat, and she laughs slightly once again, trying to cover it with her mouth.

“Like hard liquor.”

“That’s not something a saint should say,” he tells her, eyebrows furrowing once more, but she doesn’t seem to care whether or not it is.

But he knows that it’s true—the mix of sweat and alcohol were most definitely not a divine smell—so he sighs again, reaching for the glass of water that was always ready for him on that crate.

“I guess I should bathe then, eh?” he asks her, tipping the glass towards his lips, vague memories of him doing the same with different liquids resurfacing. “How far is the river?”

Her smile instantly falls to reveal a more concerned look, and it’s his turn to be so amused by such a change.

“You can’t leave to bathe now,” she tells him sternly. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Better to get it done now, don’t you think?”

She shakes her head vehemently. “ _No_ , it is not. It’s much too cold to bathe in the river, Python. I’m sure the inn, or Tatiana’s monastery, would let you bathe in an actual tub there.”

“Then let’s go there.”

“It’s the _middle of the night._ ”

He frowns at her, raising a brow as he places the glass back on the crate.

“Then let’s go to the river. I’m not waitin’ till morning.”

She frowns back at him, but she looks more confused than upset. She gives him a once over.

“I do not think you are completely sober.”

“Probably not.”

“Just go back to sleep.”

“I can’t now.”

He slowly stands from the cot, stretching his legs and his arms as he does, and she can only look up at him in utter disbelief once he stands fully.

“Well then?” He nods his head towards the entrance to the tent. “Let’s go.”

She shakes her head, quickly standing up.

“Why must I go with you?” she asks, and he’s already moved to snuff out the candle at her workspace, the tent growing darker, her silhouette barely visible.

“You’ve got to keep an eye out for me, remember?” he mockingly asks, and he watches as she pulls the blanket around her tighter, her expression turning sour. 

“Python...” she warns, but he already knows that she’ll follow.

“A little midnight adventure never hurt no one,” he tells her.

“It will most certainly hurt us though. The river is too cold, Python, we’re in Rigel near the start of winter. It will be freezing!”

“I remember a certain someone once stuck her hands into a Rigelian river for quite some time before.”

“That was different,” she protests. “I didn’t _bathe_ in it."

He shrugs his shoulders, and he moves back to the cot to grab his own thick blanket, pulling it around himself.

“You complained about the smell and now we’ve got to do something about it.”

“We’ll get sick, Python,” she tries again, but he’s already walking out the tent with her right behind him. “Magic doesn’t cure sickness, it heals wounds. At least put some shoes on.”

The cold air of night hits his face as she finishes speaking, and the grass beneath his bare feet is already slick with the dew of early morning. The moon in the sky tells him that it’s been quite a while since midnight had passed.

“I’m not asking you to get in _with_ me,” he says, and he can tell by the small strangled noise she’s made that he’s embarrassed her. “Just sit there and make sure I don’t do anything stupid. That’s what you normally do anyway, isn’t it?”

“Python!” she says with a tight whisper as they begin to maneuver quietly through camp, stepping past tents and towards the edge of it where he figures the river must be. “ _This_ is stupid.”

“This is what you get for not being asleep when you should be,” he says instead, and he turns around to reach out and grab her by the arm, urging her to quicken her pace to match his.

“You were most definitely wrong to think that you are sober.”

He holds back a laugh, but drags her along anyways the best that he can with her heavy blanket in the way.

He must be terrifying to her, a frightening spectacle to witness in the dead of night, but his mind is so clouded at the moment that all he can think about is that river, and how he’s going to freeze to death in it.

Not the spectacular bloody death he was looking for, but a death that he got from not wanting to smell like that hard liquor she so despised—he doesn’t think it’s such a bad death to die.

 

 

 

Python hates climbing trees, hates the way the bark presses into his palms as he hoists himself up the trunk and into the thin branches of it.

He knows he has to be quiet, this is a very specific order from Lukas after all, but that doesn’t stop him from grumbling about it.

“‘Climb the tRees, Python’, ‘Did you hear what I said, Python?’” He mocks Lukas, rolling his eyes as he climbs higher, searching for the sturdiest branch.

The rustling of leaves from a nearby tree grabs his attention, and he strains his eyes to look through the green to see Tobin in the branches of it, holding a finger to his lips to signal him to be quiet. Python also raises a finger, though his is one of displeasure at the thought of some kid telling him how to do his job.

But when he finds the right place to stay, he clears all thoughts from his head, and he shifts his weight as he begins to waddle across, his bow in his hands, an arrow ready to fire.

They’re waiting for the Rigelian soldiers to pass by, a small group that could be nothing more than a simple scouting party. The small forest is on the other side of the river they had just crossed, and with the rest of the Deliverance hiding a ways back in the tree lines, the duty to take out the supposed Rigelian scouting party had been given to the two archers.

Python can hear their loud footsteps before anything else, and years of hunting in the woods behind his house have taught him how to listen well—that is, when he wants to listen.

Their boots pound against the small dirt trail winding through the trees, stepping noisily on leaves and twigs and whatever else litters the forest floor, and Python has to swallow the bitter laugh—did they not think about the possible dangers lurking high in the trees? They were about to be taught a lesson they sadly wouldn’t remember.

He looks to where he had last seen Tobin, only to see that the boy is also very intently studying their prey, his fingers itching to pull back the bowstring, and Python revels in the familiar feeling of anticipation.

Python looks back down and counts out six men; two foot soldiers, a knight on a horse, two mages and an archer. The closer they get to their hiding spots, the stronger the urge to hold his breath is. He only hopes that Tobin knows who to target.

Carefully, Python steadies himself, taking a silent breath in and holding it as he slowly pulls back the bowstring, aiming down towards the knight on the horse. The sweet spot where the edges of his helmet and his pauldrons don’t meet, only the cloth of his shirt protecting him; Python knows once he releases this arrow, the kid will as well, and then there’s no turning back. He’s got one chance to do it right.

He looks over at Tobin again, who now looks at him with his own bow ready and aimed down towards the party. Python mouths the word _mage_ , and thankfully, Tobin nods his head.

And without further thought, Python releases the arrow as soon as the knight passes below his tree, knocking him off his horse with a cry, sending the animal running off in fear, and Tobin does the same not even a second later, taking out one of the mages.

Quickly, Python aims towards one of the soldiers, the man dropping just as quickly as before, but that is about as well as things go, as the party realizes they’re being attacked and Tobin hits the other soldier instead of the second mage. Python whips his head around to him, but there’s an awful look of confusion taking up all of his attention, and soon the air begins to reek of ozone as the hair at the nape of his neck stands up.

He snaps back to the men below them, pulling his arrow back once more, but the startling cry and a loud thump against the ground takes his attention away again as he looks over to see Tobin no longer in his place among the trees.

Python panics, looking down through the branches to see him on the floor of the forest, an arrow through his shoulder, his other hand nursing his arm and he realizes now that they’ve been found.

“ _Gods_ —damn it!” he curses, already beginning to climb back down, giving up halfway to just leap out of the tree.

Once his feet hit the ground, he releases an arrow at the first person he sees—but it is the archer. Another fatal mistake.

He runs and pulls Tobin all the way to his feet before slapping him on the back and telling him to run back to where the rest of the Deliverance waits, and the kid wastes no time, bolting through the trees to get back to safety lest he die to that awful Rigelian magic.

Python can’t help but feel some fear as he aims at the mage finally, the man already reciting spells, and Python could not think of a more perfect time for him to finally miss a shot. The arrow whizzes past the man’s face, getting stuck in the trunk of a tree nearby, and it only serves to break the mage’s concentration for a few seconds.

_That isn’t good_ , he dumbly thinks. The mage is protected by the trees from his arrows, but magic knows no physical bounds, and it would chase him down until it found him.

So Python turns and runs as well, cursing the uneven forest floor as he almost catches up to Tobin, who’s begun to slow down from the pain.

“Healer!” Tobin shouts, and Python wants to curse the gods again for the kid’s foolishness. “Heal—!”

“Shut the hell up!” Python hisses, but it’s too late as he sees Silque curiously step out from the line of trees that the rest of the Deliverance is hiding behind, and as she realizes what’s happened she runs to meet them.

He feels the air tingle with magic again, and as soon as she’s within arms distance, he grabs her, pulling her with him as he pushes Tobin away to hide behind another tree.

“Hey!”

“Py—!”

He slaps a hand over her mouth as he pulls her against him, pressing himself as flat as he can against the tree they’re hiding behind. He looks over at Tobin, who looks back with wide eyes, and Python once again mouths ‘ _shut up’_.

The kid doesn’t move.

He can hear as the mage catches up, his footsteps stopping only a few feet away from their hiding spots, his breath coming out hard, and Python hopes, wishes—even prays—that this is not how they will be caught. They can’t fight back; Tobin left his bow behind where he had fallen, and Python has a girl pressed up against him who knows that even the slightest movement will pull the mage’s attention their way.

He looks down at the top of her head, and he notices the way her chest rises and falls in a panic; her heart must be racing. He is just glad that he cannot see the fear on her face.

Two archers and a healer—what luck this was. He shuts his eyes tight, holding his breath and trying to think of some way to get out of this.

The feeling of magic in the air, the sensation one gets when he knows magic, dark, cruel magic, is about to be released is almost nauseating. He can only hope that the smell of burnt flesh and charred bones will not be the next thing that comes.

Silque’s hand reaches up to touch his own still covering her mouth, and he looks down to see her other barely raised, pointing across to where she had come from. There he sees quite a few familiar faces peeking out from behind the far line of trees, but his eyes instantly land on Lukas.

Python violently nods his head to where the mage was lurking around behind him, and he sees Lukas’s eyes widen, then disappear behind his tree again, the rest of the faces quickly doing the same not even a second later.

And then, Python sees Kliff begin to climb a tree near where Lukas had been, and he desperately hopes that this is part of some plan that the redhead has come up with to get them out of it.

Kliff disappears among the leaves, but the feeling of magic in the air nearly doubles as he guesses the young mage must be channeling his own unnatural energy. The change in the air gets the Rigelian mage’s attention, and Python feels his blood freeze and his body stiffen as he hears the footsteps begin to approach closer again.

He looks over to see Tobin with his eyes shut tight, his teeth clenched in agonizing anticipation of the end, but he doesn’t get to look long as a spell is set off and the air explodes with magic.

Python tightens his grip around Silque and turns away from the impact of the spell hitting something—but he instantly knows that it wasn’t the mage.

The mage runs right in between and past their two trees, and Python nearly lets out the biggest sigh of relief as he realizes that Kliff was meant as a distraction. Quickly, he lets go of Silque and picks up his fallen bow, aiming it at the mage who was running straight for the rest of the army.

He wastes no time pulling back and releasing an arrow, hitting the man between the shoulder blades right as he reaches the first line of trees. The mage suddenly stops and slowly turns around, but he doesn’t even get to see his assaulter as Python watches Gray leap out from behind the tree to slash him down with his sword.

It’s only when he sees the man collapse into a pool of his own blood that Python realizes how tense his body feels, how his knees ache from leaping down from the tree, the palms of his hands cut up from the bark. He _hates_ climbing trees.

He turns to look at Silque and finds that her face is red, she’s breathing hard, and she looks as if she’s never been more relieved to see a man dead—it’s a look that he hopes to never see on her again.

Yet he approaches her anyways, but she seems too busy trying to steady her racing heart to notice him standing there.

“Are you okay?”

She looks up at him and blinks, then simply nods, doing nothing more before turning away from him to speak to Tobin. And Python dumbly follows.

“Silque,” Tobin says with a sigh of relief, but Python feels the anger begin to rise.

“You nearly got us killed,” he tells the kid as soon as he reaches him, and Tobin makes a strangled noise as Silque quietly wraps a hand around the arrow in his shoulder.

“I—“ Tobin starts, but his words end with a strangled cry of pain as she pulls the arrow out, sticking her thumb into the wound before quickly covering it with her hand, something that Python has felt far too many times.

But he feels no sympathy as he knows he’ll have to get in his cruel words before Lukas comes around, so he tunes out the words of healing and the warm light from her hands, and he focuses solely on the kid.

“When I say ‘mage’ that means _both_ of them _,”_ he tells him sternly, and Tobin begins to frown, a very offended look taking his face.

“How was I supposed to know that?”

Python closes his eyes, holding back his desperate need to slap the kid.

“Use that brain of yours. Out of all of those men, who was the biggest threat to us?” he asks, but he doesn’t really want to hear an answer. “You not only put us in danger, but you ended up putting the healer in it as well.”

Silque’s head looks up at him momentarily, her mouth opening as if to protest the notion, but she stops herself, placing her attention back on Tobin’s wrist. Tobin only frowns deeper in response.

“And not just her, but the rest of the Deliverance as well. Trees will not save us from magic.”

It is then that Tobin’s face goes pale as he looks back towards the rest of the army—his _friends_ —and the heavy words seem to sink in. Sure, it had been Python who had pushed the kid behind one of those trees for safety, but it was pure luck that the mage wasn’t fast enough to catch up and see where they had gone.

“Well, why didn’t _you_ aim for the second mage then?” Tobin asks indignantly, finding some confidence.

“I trusted _you_ enough to think that you could do it.”

Tobin’s words fall flat as he guiltily looks away.

“But I guess I was wrong—“

“That’s enough, Python.”

Python’s words fall flat as he shuts his mouth to look at Silque, only to see that her hands have stopped moving, her gaze still locked on to Tobin.

“We’re all okay,” she says quietly with a very troublesome expression. “It’s okay. Do you have any other injuries, Tobin?”

He shakes his head, and Python keeps his mouth shut as Lukas finally approaches, that indecipherable look on his face.

“What happened?” he expectedly asks, and Python can only sigh, shouldering his bow once again, his head beginning to ache. He no longer cares.

“Ask the kid.”

And he knows Lukas doesn’t like that answer, yet he walks away, many terrible thoughts filling his head.

The thought of how magic would burn his bones, the thought of watching that kid die under his eye, the thought of the healer ever at his mercy. Such horrid, horrid thoughts.

It was only pure luck that Lukas had noticed them and set his own plan into motion, only luck that the Rigelian mage wasn’t smart enough to take just a few more steps forward and find them.

“Mages,” he curses under his breath, though he knows it was a mage who had saved them— _not_ him.

 

 

 

As much as Python would hate to admit it, he’s become used to living in Rigel.

Though he isn’t technically a citizen, and he’s not _actually_ living there, he has no choice but to grow and adapt to his environment as all living things must do if they want to survive.

The cold doesn’t seem as cold anymore, the enemies not as harsh, and he’s learned from Tatiana and Ezekiel that Rigelians are just like Zofians—there’s just a different god standing in their way.

Python likes Tatiana, thinks she’s nice and pretty—and that there’s _quite_ the enrapturing quality to her—but he knew very early on that those soft looks and pretty words were never meant for him, and never would be because of Ezekiel.

Python doesn’t mind the general, doesn’t mind the fact that he keeps such a close eye on Tatiana, but even Python is not afraid to admit how frightening the man is. Tatiana had told him he was a foreigner, a man she had found washed up on the shore of her seaside village, and he figures that the man has all sorts of frightening secrets just waiting to be revealed—Python wouldn’t mind knowing a few of them, but he knows that they most certainly are not pleasant.

Silque seems to be just the tiniest bit wary of them though, and Python had noticed it’s when they speak of Rigel—telling her things that she must not want to hear—that she is the most distant. No sympathy for the worshipper of Mila in a Duma Faithful land, he guesses. 

“I like both of them,” Silque tells him when he asks though, but there’s just something about the way she won’t look at him when she answers that tells him she’s lying.

“I don’t believe you.”

She looks up from her pile of freshly washed sheets and frowns.

“I like speaking with Tatiana, she’s kind and amiable. We talk a lot of the differences in our practices.”

“Duma versus Mila?”

“They’re all very respectful conversations,” she says, folding up a sheet with precision. “It’s nothing violent like I imagine you wish it would be. I don’t mind being around her.”

“Then it’s the general you have a problem with,” he says, and he watches as she presses her lips into a thin line, her hands momentarily stopping.

“I don’t have a _problem_ with him. You’re just trying to incite drama.”

He chuckles, picking a blade of grass from the earth—he had lost interest in the laundry quite some time ago.

“Then what is it? What is it about the guy that’s got you so tight lipped sometimes?”

She turns her head to give him a very unpleasant frown, but Python doesn’t really mind, he just likes that he’s got a reaction like that from her.

“There’s nothing—“

“I’ve seen it in the med tent. You get so rigid, so formal and uptight when he’s in there with you guys and you have nothing to distract yourself with.”

Her eyes widen a bit, but she quickly schools her emotions.

“If you are there to see this, then your sharp tongue is plenty distracting as it is. It’s a wonder work even gets done when you are around.”

He laughs, glad to see her rise to the challenge. 

“Do you like him or something?” he asks, propping an elbow up on his knee to hold his head in his hand. “Hate to break it to you but he’s already got a girl.”

He watches in amusement as her cheeks grow red, her eyebrows furrowing as she opens and closes her mouth to speak, trying so hard to find something to say.

She settles on just hitting him with the folded up sheet, causing an ugly laugh to escape his lips.

“Stop assuming that I like every man I see,” she says angrily, her motions as she moves to refold the sheet much sharper and more rigid. “You talk too much sometimes.”

“I don’t assume that about _every_ man. I’ve never once asked if you like Forsyth,” he teases, but the ideas forming in his head he knows she won’t like. He pauses, her cheeks still red. “...Do you like Forsyth?”

This time she uses her hands to push him away, but her small anger doesn’t faze him much as he laughs once again.

“No!” she hisses, and Python likes that he’s got her so worked up. “I mean, yes, but not like—!”

She sighs, closing her eyes in exasperation. “You’re driving me crazy today.”

He gives her a fake pout, tilting his head as she now refuses to look at him. “I’ve got you irritated.”

She rolls her eyes, her frown softening up ever so slightly, but her movements are still jagged. She doesn’t answer.

“Alright, I’ll shut up,” he tells her, and though she would never say it out loud, he knows she is silently thanking the thought.

He lies back in the grass, pushing his knees out from his body and pulling his hands up behind his head, watching the gray Rigelian clouds slowly crawl across the afternoon sky. He wonders if it will actually rain soon—it’s been awhile since the Zofians had seen some.

But he then begins to wonder what else Rigel might have that Zofia doesn’t, and a certain lady begins to cross his mind once more.

“Say,” he speaks up again, pausing as he sees Silque stop momentarily to look at him suspiciously from the corner of her eye. “Why does Tatiana even have a lover? Isn’t that...I dunno, against some rule? She’s supposed to be a holy woman.”

He watches her drop the sheet from her hand and into her lap as she looks down at him with wide eyes, several indecipherable emotions crossing her face at once.

He raises a brow. “Are _you_ allowed to have one?”

“Python!” she snaps, but he knows that she’s much too scandalized to form coherent thoughts. “I—“

“Like a vow or something. Do you have vows?”

“No!” she says all too quickly, her voice rising almost as high as her eyebrows. She blinks rapidly, trying to compose herself as she snaps her head back down to her dropped sheet, her cheeks growing red again. “I mean—I haven’t taken any vows _yet_ , but—“

“So there _are_ rules against it. I figured. Can’t stay _that_ holy if you’re getting down and—“

She makes a loud strangled noise to stop him, and Python’s eyes widen a little as she does, utterly delighted by the sound. He’s never been so entertained by teasing her before.

“I don’t know if the Duma Faithful have vows of chastity,” she quickly says, far too embarrassed to even glance at him now. “But it’s her decision whether or not to take them. And it’s none of _your_ business what she and General Ezekiel do.”

“What about you guys then? Mila’s followers.”

Her hands seem to become uncoordinated as she reaches for another sheet, the fabric slipping between her fingers the first few times she tries to pick it up. He’s _never_ seen her so flustered before.

“Well,” she begins, finally snatching up the sheet. “It’s usually those who seek to serve Mila directly in her temple that take vows like that.”

“Is that what you’ll do? Serve Mila directly?”

She blinks, a more sober look taking over her features as she drops her eyes to her lap, her hands frozen in place. He can practically feel the air around her become suddenly thick with an unwelcome tension.

“I’ve thought about it, but the clerics there must be pure in every way possible. I don’t know if...if I’ll be able to anymore.”

His eyebrows furrow, an awful feeling settling into the pit of his stomach.

“What do you mean?” he cautiously asks, but he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“This war...it’s killed something within me. I am not the image of someone who should serve Mila like that. I am not...pure.”

He sits up fast, and his head aches as that pit feeling makes him want to throw up, an awful anxiety beginning to settle in as well. It’s too cryptic of an answer to satisfy that aching curiosity, but too telling to give him such a horrid thought. He begins to assume the worst. He’s begun to regret teasing her.

“When you were taken before you met Alm,” he begins, dreading the words that will come from her mouth as she looks at him with a fearful expression. “In that shrine, did those thieves...did they...”

A more pained expression paints her face, but she shakes her head.

“No,” she says quietly. “They didn’t.”

He lets out the smallest sigh of relief, though he feels anything _but_ relieved at the moment.

“I meant that I am no longer pure in other ways. There is blood on my hands.”

He remembers—blood stains more than just the skin.

“There’s blood on everyone’s hands,” he reminds her. “No one here is squeaky clean like that anymore.”

She frowns.

“But...it’s just so deplorable. It’s so violent, so gruesome. Why must we fight to get what we want?”

A lopsided frown grows on his lips as she tries to busy herself with the laundry once again, but he knows that her mind is far from it now.

“You said yourself that sacrifices are made with things like this,” he says.

A friend lost, an enemy made, that is what she had insisted sacrifices were meant to be.

“I did, and I know that it’s true, and that I said it will all be worth it,” she sighs, pushing away the bucket of laundry. “But that does not make me loathe this war any less. Sacrifice is necessary, but bloodshed is not.”

Python thinks the two go hand in hand, so he doesn’t understand how there can be one without the other. Sacrifice _was_ bloodshed—wasn’t it?

“Many of these people we fight, just the regular Rigelian soldiers, are just like us. They have families and friends and they’re fighting because they believe they are right—just like us.”

“We’re fighting for something better,” he says. “We’re not just liberating ourselves anymore; we’re trying to save the Rigelians too.”

“Yes, but is the only way to save them by killing those who bother to fight back?” she asks, her voice right. “I know things are not as easy as that, but I truly wish that war didn’t have to be like this.”

He stays quiet as he watches her suddenly reach out to him timidly, her small hand awkwardly moving towards his lying across his propped up knee. She reaches and she touches, just barely grazes her fingers against his own, and the contact sends a feeling of sporadic heat up through his arm that he can only describe as fleeting and uneasy, not quite uncomfortable but not quite welcome.

He looks at her suspiciously, but she simply looks at his hand, his body unmoving as she finally envelops it, palm against palm. It’s warm.

“You are right in saying that none of us are clean anymore,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “Not you, not me, not Alm or Faye or even little Delthea. We’ve all been bloodstained.”

He doesn’t speak, his body is too tense, his mind too nervous to break whatever she’s about to say.

“This is a sacrifice—our innocence in exchange for a more peaceful future. Though it feels as if it’s a needless one, I know that...maybe it isn’t.”

She squeezes his hand, lightly runs her thumb over the back of it, and it’s an all too unfamiliar feeling for him as he is no longer sure what to do or feel, no harsh quips and no teasing thoughts to throw at her. Only silence.

He watches her face take on a look of worry, then a look of melancholy and sadness as she slowly intertwines their fingers together, her eyebrows furrowing at the fit. He knows he must stop her from falling into a despair, must stop her from seeking solace in him.

“Our hands are tainted with blood that is not our own,” she says, voice tight, and she finally meets his eyes once more, though they hold little confidence with a wisdom far beyond her. “ _That_ is our sacrifice.”

“It doesn’t seem so bad,” he says, his voice hoarse from the uncomfortable nature of it all. “As long as we’re still up and running, then it isn’t so bad.”

She gives him a sad smile, a look he now hates. “A naive thought from the older man. But I thank you for it.”

There’s a pause; his hand begins to ache.

“Things will be okay,” he tells her, but she releases her hold on his hand, her fingers slipping through his own as he closes his fist to try and catch them once more—but they get away.

She closes her eyes and nods her head, taking a deep breath as she lets the unwanted feelings and the words escape into the air. She was beginning to unravel, just for him, and he’s not sure if he wants that or not.

After a moment more of ineffable silence, she turns back to the laundry, moving to pack things up and head back before the threat of rain becomes a problem.

“Let’s go inside,” she says, and Python wordlessly agrees, the thoughts of lovers and saints and shrines plaguing his mind as the sticky sensation of blood becomes a phantom feeling that seeps into the lines on the palms of his hands.

 

 

 

It’s during one of the earthquakes that he finally finds her, cornered and nearly beaten bloody, her healing rod clenched in one hand, the other holding her insides together.

Yet she still stands, and Python knows that he has very limited time to get her somewhere so that she will not die; they need her, much more now than they ever have before, and he also knows that no emergency magic will keep her alive for that long.

So he runs to her, sprinting as fast as he can and she sees him, her eyes widen as a very dreadful look takes over her features.

Python stops to pull back his bowstring, letting the arrow fly through the air to imbed itself into the back of the man’s thigh. The knight angrily turns around towards his assailant, but it is in that moment that Python sees Silque raise the rod above her head, bringing it down with all of the force and energy she has left within her to hit his skull. He falls to the ground, and so Python runs again.

He runs as fast as his feet will carry him, throwing his bow to the ground to pull out the small knife strapped to his side, clenching it in his hand with such a force that his hand begins to cramp, but he doesn’t care at all.

He doesn’t care that Silque has called out to him, and he doesn’t care that there are worse dangers to face now; he only cares about this man and how he is still breathing when he should not be.

And so Python doesn’t stop until he reaches the man who has started to try and get back up. Python pushes him back down, straddling the knight as he rips off his helm. There’s a look of fear in his eyes; Python doesn’t care.

He raises the small knife all the way above his head before plunging it into one of those fearful eyes, a short cry of pain ringing in his ears before nothing. He pulls it out, and stabs it again and again and again, until the man is no longer moving beneath him, writhing and fighting for life. But he doesn’t stop until he feels like he’s choking, the cause of it from Silque pulling on the back of his shirt, trying to pull him off the bloodied man.

Another earthquake rumbles through the Dragon’s Maw, and she’s thrown to the ground, her yelp of pain finally bringing him back from his awful actions.

_She’s dying_.

He turns to look at her to see that she’s crumpled up in to a ball, the worst expression he’s seen on her face yet, and he wants to puke at the sight of her red hand resting against the large wound of her abdomen. 

“H-Hey,” he’s barely able to push out as the panic rises in his voice, the adrenaline pumping through his veins much harder. He begins to crawl over to her, but her shoulders only shake violently in response as he sees her eyes shut tight. Her emergency magic must’ve worn off.

He reaches out with trembling hands and places them against her cheeks, grabbing her face and pulling it to face the sky, noticing with disgust how cold and clammy she already feels. Her lips tremble, her eyes open, and it’s such an awful feeling when his heart lurches into his throat as he sees the hot tears welled up in her unfocused eyes, the fear and the pain written plainly. She’s having trouble breathing, crying, she’s having trouble staying _alive_ , but she brings a shaky hand up to grab his wrist anyways.

“T-Take...to Tatiana...” she rasps out, her chest rising and falling too sporadically. “Take me...to her...”

It takes a moment too long for Python to process what she’s said, but he can’t rip his hands away from her face fast enough to grab her body, cradling her head with one arm, hooking the other under her legs. She’s heavy, practically deadweight, but Python can’t get to his feet any quicker than he wants to.

He takes off running towards the other side of the battlefield, cursing every god that he knows of for making the land so large, for making the two healers split up a supposed good idea.

Her stuttering breaths as she struggles for air are awful, and he knows that they will haunt him for many nights to come. _He’s_ done this.

He nearly trips when another earthquake tears through the land, another wail of pure and agonizing pain being ripped from her throat as the tremors still reach her body even in his arms. Her hand frantically clutches at her open wound, her fingers practically digging into it instead, and Python can’t believe that she’s ended up like this, that he _let_ her end up like this.

It was _he_ who was supposed to keep an eye on her today, and he didn’t care enough to keep to her that close. And now he regrets it.

“If you die on me, I’ll kill you,” he angrily tells her, and he has to watch in horror as she tries her best to laugh at the thought, an ugly expression taking her paling face.

“I’m sorry,” is all she can really say through her labored breaths and gritted teeth, and Python wants to yell at her that she’s an idiot, apologizing for his mistakes.

_Damn the gods_ , he thinks, his arms aching beneath her. Damn fate and damn destiny; damn every awful thing that’s decided this was alright.

Python doesn’t care what Tatiana is doing, who she may be tending to, he just knows that he’s about to throw this damn girl into the other woman’s arms and hope that everything will turn out okay. And if things don’t, then he just doesn’t want her blood on his hands.

But it’s her blood that’s on his clothes and his skin and his body, so he doesn’t know why he wants to be rid of her so badly, why his heart pounds and his mind dreads the outcome.

He feels something pull at the front of his shirt, and he doesn’t have to look down to know that it is her small hand that’s grasping to him, clinging to him in fearful desperation. His feet aren’t fast enough.

The image of that gallant general on that dark horse appears though, and Python has never felt so relieved yet so conflicted. If Ezekiel was here, then Tatiana would not be far behind—that is, if Tatiana herself was fine and alive.

“Ezekiel! Zeke!” he shouts out into the air, much like his lover had once before, and the general turns his head just as another earthquake rocks the battlefield. Python stops, unable to move across the shaking land. He feels her fingers twist into his shirt even tighter.

Yet he is only thankful as he hears the sound of hooves beating against the ground, and he looks up to see that Ezekiel is coming for them.

Python doesn’t say anything, just thrusts the girl in his arms towards the man when he reaches them, earning him another cry from her, and Ezekiel doesn’t need anything else. He leans over to take her from him, sprawling her out across his lap, looking half dead, barely able to lift her head. She reaches out—or at least tries to—but the general pushes her hand back down as Python stares at her dumbly.

“Tatiana,” is all Python can say, and the general simply nods his head, turning his horse and riding away with nothing else but that. She’s gone, and the only thing he can do is try to forget, the image of her in his mind fading as quickly as she had left. 

He looks down to see that her headdress had fallen off in the transfer. He bends to pick up the tattered old thing, and he once again curses everything that comes to mind—especially Mila.

_Damn Mila and damn her,_ is the only thought that crosses his mind as he clutches the headdress tight, turning to find his way back to where he was supposed to be. Tonight’s scolding would be the worst one yet.

Sacrifices to be made; he knows very well what she meant now when she said that they were necessary, but bloodshed was not, and he wishes that he was not so dense to just pass it off as her being naive once more.

A friend lost, an enemy made, and it’s _her_ words that will haunt him when he returns back to camp and she’s not there.

Sweaty palms, his brow furrowed—Python paces back and forth along the edge of trees around camp as he contemplates walking into the tent or not. 

Two whole days had passed since the battle in the Dragon’s Maw, and it was only this morning that the path to the falls had been cleared by mysterious forces. Two whole days since the tortuous feat, two whole days since she had nearly died, but the stench of blood still lingers in his nose, and he can barely make himself eat because of it.

Forsyth had gone to see her, had told him that she was okay, just a little out of it, but Python didn’t care, he didn’t want to see her.

And Lukas had stopped by to check on her as well, told Python that healing magic was a miraculous thing, and that it was indeed a miracle that she was still alive. But Python doesn’t care, he’s too anxious to see her.

Neither of his friends had even thought to blame him for it, but the voice inside his head tells him that she would not even be confined to that gods awful tent as a patient and not a healer had he just payed a little more attention to her—if he had just _cared_ a little more. 

It is the worst he’s felt in such a long time; nothing he’s ever done in his life could even compare to the awful dread of guilt he feels residing indefinitely in the pit of his stomach. He’s never toyed with someone’s life so easily before—he doesn’t like it.

The image of her in his arms has not stopped playing back to him in his sleep as well, her white robes stained red, her pretty face twisted with an ugly pain, her usually sweet voice crying out in an unbearable sound. Such cruel, cruel scenes playing through his mind every chance that they get—Python hates it.

But for every part that he is guilty, there is an equal part that is angry—angry with her.

Angry because she is reckless, angry because she is much too kind, angry because she is fearless and only cares for others and not herself. 

Angry because he knows about her debt to her goddess, and angry because he knows she would willingly repay it with a smile, even with blood caked between her teeth. Too nice and too likable had since changed to too compassionate and too courageous, and he realizes that she was so much more than the young girl who healed his wounds, so much braver and kinder than he could ever even hope to be—and that it was too late for him to change and follow her lead.

Yet he knows he is just trying to push the blame onto someone else, anything to relieve him of his guilt, and he knows that his anger is falsely earned.

But then he realizes that she asked him for help, asked that he take her to Tatiana, and he begins to wonder why, especially if she was so indebted to this goddess to the point where her life could be the repayment.

He sighs as he grips the back of his neck with his hands, and the pacing path grows shorter as each minute passes by, his hands grow tighter as every second ticks. To leave or to stay—he’s not sure what to do.

It is then that Python realizes he _wants_ to see her, and he still insists on telling himself that he doesn’t know why. He knows it isn’t fair to him and he knows it isn’t fair to her, but he’s always been most comfortable playing dumb because it’s _always_ been the easiest thing for him to play. He curses himself for being an idiot, but that doesn’t stop the smile from crossing his face as he realizes just what she’s done to him.

_Her headdress_ , he thinks, _I’ve still got her headdress_ , and it is then that he finds his excuse to enter the tent, though he knows that he never really needed one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I think there should be only 2 chapters left to go for this fic!At least I hope so (Which is hilarious) because the first chapter I thought it was only going to be 3....smh...how foolish. Anyways thank you to everyone for reading, and thanks to those that commented last chapter! I hope to see you back!


	9. broken bones and broken gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't care what's in character anymore LMAOO i just hope yall enjoy!!!!

Python bites down on his lip hard as he cradles his broken arm against his bruising ribs; war was not as fun as kids made it out to be.

It could be—if he was more careful—but because he was pushed down the tall stone steps of the Rigelian Falls, he no longer finds anything fun about the fighting.

Nothing fun about the fighting when he is losing, nothing fun about Forsyth dragging him to the healers like a hurt stray cat. He begins to think it’s his pride that’s been wounded worse than his body.

Call him a sore loser, he surely doesn’t care. He just wants to be rid of this pain.

But now he sits on a cot in the med tent, with Forsyth standing behind him, and the two pretty healers in front of him, all three of them talking over one another as they try to figure out what to do. Silque was a good healer, but it turned out that she was not an expert in everything.

“Do you know how to set bones?” she had asked Tatiana meekly, and Python’s heart rate instantly shot up at the thought, a mere touch to his arm enough to make him almost cry out in pain.

This was the girl that wasn’t supposed to doubt herself in her abilities; nothing seemed to bother her anymore—except maybe this, he is learning.

It certainly doesn’t make him feel any better when Tatiana’s eyes widen a bit, her voice sounding strange and small when she asks, “You don’t?”

He watches in horror as Silque seems to panic, fumbling over her words as a very worried look takes her face.

“I _know_ how, I’ve seen others do it, but I’ve never done it myself,” she says, and Python gnaws on his bottom lip harder, knowing that even if he draws blood it will not draw the pain away.

“I’m afraid I’ve never done it either,” Tatiana says, her voice rising a bit as she pushes back her bangs with a gloved hand. “This isn’t good I suppose.”

“You fixed Tobin’s finger,” Python reminds Silque through gritted teeth. “What’s so different about this?”

“That was a finger, not an arm,” she says, and he hears Forsyth suck in air through his teeth, gripping Python’s shoulders from behind.

“Well won’t magic make it alright?” he asks, but Silque shares a look with Tatiana that says otherwise.

“Magic speeds up the healing process, but we have to do the actual work of setting the bone back in place. If it’s not done right—“

“I don’t care if it’s done _right_ ,” he interrupts, his head beginning to ache in anticipation. “Just fix the damn thing. It _hurts_.”

Silque frowns, opening her mouth to speak but Tatiana cuts her off.

“How confident are you in doing it?”

Silque frowns deeper but she now looks more scared than angry. He knows she doesn’t want to openly admit that she’s not very confident about it at all—especially in front of the one she’s about to do it to.

The adrenaline had worn off long ago with the end of battle, and now things were starting to piss him off; the pain, the hesitation, the words. The Mother’s magic was easily supposed to fix this—so why was it taking so long for them to just do it?

“If you set the bone, I’ll heal it afterwards,” Silque tries to bargain, but Tatiana hesitantly shakes her head, her eyebrows scrunching together.

“If _you_ do it, _I’ll_ heal after.”

“But it’ll hurt a lot—“

“It hurts like a bitch _now,”_ he interrupts again _._ “If you can’t do it then make Forsyth do it, someone just please do _something_.”

“Language,” Forsyth scolds as both healers turn to look at Python beginning to grow antsy, a new wave of nauseating pain beginning to wash over him as he fights the need to pass out. Python would be lying if he said that he didn’t want to cry at least a little.

Silque hesitates for a moment before reaching for his arm, stopping her hand right in front of it.

“I will do both,” she says finally, voice seemingly much smaller than it really is.

“Are you sure?” Tatiana asks, and Silque nods, but Python thinks that she doesn’t look too good; her face is white like she herself might pass out right then and there.

“It’ll be easier that way,” she says. “My hand will already be there and I can start the healing immediately.”

“O-Okay,” Tatiana says, and she looks no better. “You can do it.”

And it’s then that Silque finally takes a hold of his wrist, gently pulling his arm out towards her as his breath hitches and the pain grows larger. He slaps a hand to his forehead to keep himself from cursing, but it doesn’t help much that every little movement she makes only makes it worse.

She looks up at Tatiana, and then Forsyth, and then the arm, and he wants to tell her that she’s got it, that she knows how to do it and that things will be alright, but he can only see himself saying those things to her if it was someone else she was trying to help. Because it’s him writhing beneath her touch, he doesn’t find any encouragement or hope in the way that she hesitantly holds it, and he finds no comfort in the pain that makes him whimper as she runs her cool fingers along his arm to search for the fractured bone.

Her fingers press harder into the skin than he thinks is necessary, but he bites down hard into his lip again once she finds what she must be looking for, and she slowly looks up past Python and at Forsyth standing behind him, still gripping his shoulders.

“If he passes out, please keep him in place,” she says, her eyebrows furrowing once more as he hears Forsyth agree.

She nods her head as she finally looks at Python. He looks down at her, his teeth clenched, his body starting to sweat, and he thinks bitterly that this girl is toying with him now, making him wait so long to fix something that should be simple for her.

She opens her mouth, then shuts it, giving him such a sad look that he’s begun to wonder if the pain has killed; he doesn’t know why she looks so distraught when he’s the one in trouble.

She looks back down at the arm, her hand ready to pull and set, and he quite literally almost chokes when she says, “Please forgive me, Python.”

She pulls his arm and he lets out a short and strangled cry of pain as he gets tunnel vision, the edges of the world growing dark as his ears sound like they’re ringing even though he knows they are not. He only has time to let out one swear before Forsyth slaps a hand down over his mouth, so Python grinds his teeth as a very cold feeling begins to wash over him and his headache worsens.

It’s only when he hears Silque stutter that he realizes she’s started the healing, and he barely opens his eyes to see her own shut tight, her teeth clenched as she recites the words of healing she’s said so many times. For some reason she looks like she’s in as much pain as he’s in.

But the pain doesn’t last long as she finishes up the spell, and it’s almost as if he’d never fallen down the stone stairs, as if he’d never broken his stupid arm. He feels completely fine now as Silque stands and backs away, moving across the tent in such a hurry as Tatiana follows her behind very closely.

It’s jarring how easy it is to do things that really shouldn’t be done, defying everything natural for something magical, turning back time while still stepping into the future—it makes Python uncomfortable, but he won’t complain about it so long as he doesn’t have to feel pain.

“It’s all better?” he hears Forsyth ask as he finally steps out from behind him to sit next to him on the cot instead. “You feel okay?”

Python nods, suspiciously moving his arm in different ways. “As good as new.”

“That seemed to be the worst one yet. I’m surprised you didn’t cry.”

Python frowns. “You could show some compassion rather than scolding me while I’m in pain.”

“Why? It’s nice to see _you_ squirm every once in a while.”

Python punches him in the arm, but Forsyth’s laughter becomes background noise as he turns his attention towards the two healers on the opposite side of the tent, watching as they talk in harsh whispers. Silque lets out a hard breath of air that sounds like she’s just got the wind knocked out of her, and she clings to her arm as Tatiana places her hands on her shoulders, a very reassuring look on her face. Python is suspicious, he runs a hand over where the break in his bone had been, and his eyes widen a bit as he watches, a very unpleasant thought coming to his mind.

He’s always been thankful for her soft hands and saving words, always been grateful that she’s devoted herself to others—it’s just the pain she puts herself through and the way that she holds others above herself that bothers him.

“It’s back to work then,” Forsyth says suddenly, standing from the cot as he pulls Python back up with him. “We’ll be busier than we’ve ever been before now that we’re so close to the end.”

Python doesn’t say anything, he just watches as Silque takes a deep breath and walks back towards them, confusion settling onto her face as she sees the two begin to leave.

“Where—“

“I’m guessing Clive needs us,” he tells her as he contemplates stepping onto the backs of Forsyth’s shoes. “I’ll come back for you later. Thanks for the help.”

“No problem,” he barely hears her utter, but it’s Tatiana’s soft voice that confuses _him_ when he finally does step out of the tent with Forsyth, the words haunting with an unusual fervor.

“If he breaks his other arm, tell him not to come back.”

 

 

 

 

Python cuts his hand on purpose, just to test a theory.

It’s not that deep, and it doesn’t sting as much as it did when he first sliced it, but it bleeds red and he knows it’ll be enough for her to use magic. So he sets out to find her.

And when he does, he grabs her by the wrist with his clean hand, holding up the bloodied one when she turns around to face him in confusion. Wordlessly, he pulls her away from prying eyes to somewhere more secluded in camp, and wordlessly, she follows.

“What happened?” she asks as soon as he stops, pulling out the handkerchief she sees peeking out from his pocket.

“Will you heal it?” he asks instead, the awful thought from earlier bothering him for nearly the entire day. He’s a fool for never noticing it until now.

She doesn’t say anything as she uses the piece of cloth to wipe away the blood, sighing as her brows furrow and she looks around. Standing behind tents in the dark—he’s not sure what she’s thinking.

But she stays silent as she reluctantly intertwines her fingers with his own, closing her eyes as she begins to recite those words he’s become familiar with.

Instead of turning his eyes away from the bright light like he do often does, he watches her face, looking for it.

And when he sees her slightly flinch as she hits a certain word, he wraps his clean hand around the wrist connected to his and pulls it away, interrupting the healing. Her breath hitches, gets stuck wildly in her throat as her eyes snap open to look up at him with an expression that feels like a mix of confusion and anger.

“Python!” she scolds, the anger starting to overtake the confusion. “You can’t just stop me in the middle. Look at your hand!”

He glances down at the palm, noticing that the wound was only half healed, the edges of it starting to tear and reopen by itself as fresh blood begins to trickle out. She pulls her hand from his grasp, kneading her own palm with her thumb, and he has his answer.

“Does everyone know that it hurts to heal? Or am I just an idiot that’s never payed attention?”

The confusion makes its way back around.

“What?”

“It hurts _you_ to heal _me_ ,” he says, wiping his hand on his pants.

She reaches for his hand again but he moves it away, looking down at her with a frown.

“That’s just the way things are, Python. It takes a little bit of everyone that uses magic.”

“What does that mean?” he asks, moving his hand from her reach once again.

She lets out a big huff of air, annoyed with the games that she thinks he’s playing.

“It _means_ nothing. Just give me your hand.”

He holds it behind his back. He can feel the blood beginning to trickle down the tips of his fingers.

“Tell me,” he insists, not caring about the blood at all. “Does it hurt to heal others?”

She looks down, crosses her arms and gives a pout that’s so childlike that Python nearly laughs.

“Only for a moment,” she says reluctantly, and Python can only sigh.

“And it’s like that for Tatiana too?”

He watches as she frowns, a very confusing expression on her face as she takes a moment to answer.

“All healing magic is the same. So yes.”

“The same?” he asks. “How can it be the same if she follows Duma?”

“White magic was a gift from the Mother before the land was split in two. Black magic was a gift from Duma.”

He scratches at his head with his clean hand, clenching closed the bloodied one behind his back.

“But then that means—“

“All magic is the same, Python. The words you hear our mages speak are the same ones that the Rigelians’ speak.”

He lets out a small breath; if the spells were the same, then where did that leave the rest of them? People followed Duma because they wanted power, while the rest followed Mila because they wanted opulence. But their mages and healers all spoke the same words...so where did that leave them?

Python begins to think that there is someone just like him in Rigel, someone who grew up in a small town with a hardworking father, someone who ended up being lazy himself. An archer, a man, someone who wants no part of this war—and then Python begins to think that he may have already killed him.

There may be someone just like her in Rigel as well—no, wait—Tatiana was like her, or maybe she was like Tatiana. A healer, a lover, but not a fighter; someone who just wants this war to be over, so they can return home to that sad little monastery and continue worshiping gods that don’t answer. Maybe she is Tatiana, or maybe he’s already killed her Rigelian self as well.

“Give me your hand,” she demands, her voice pulling him from his thoughts, but he insists on being difficult, and moves away when she reaches for it again.

“Where does it hurt when you do it?” he asks, though he thinks he already knows the answer.

“Why pull me out here to heal you when you are just going to be difficult and ignore me?” she asks instead, the confusion no longer there, just the anger and a bit of exhaustion. “Give me your hand.”

“Answer my question.”

She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose, and he notices then his blood on her hand—the familiar sight that makes him sick. How many more times will he have to see that very scene?

“Wherever the wound we are healing is,” she finally answers, but it doesn’t exactly satisfy him. “We take on the pain of the wounded for just a moment. It’s not that bad, Python.”

“But my arm,” he says, looking down at it and how there is nothing to feel—no pain, no ache, not even the smallest bit of discomfort. “Gray and Clair, Tobin’s finger, Lukas’s arm. You felt—“

“Stop it, Python,” she interrupts, trying her best to give him a placating smile. It doesn’t work. “It’s not a big deal, I promise you.”

He doesn’t want her promises though. He’s already made up his mind about everything.

Mila and her holy and devout followers were nothing like he ever imagined them to be—using soul sucking spells on their students, their healing magic actually hurting them. He doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like _Mila_ , and he doesn’t like that the girl in front of him so readily accepts all of this; she deserved better.

But what was there that was better in the world to give her? What did he think would fix all of this? He knows better than to think that he could ever change her mind on something she so vehemently believes in, just because he doesn’t like it.

So he lets her finally capture his hand once again, a somewhat triumphant look painting her face before one of annoyance does, and he already knows what she’ll say next.

“Your hand is all bloody now,” she says with a sigh, and she drops it as she looks around again. “Mine and Faye’s tent is right over there. I’ll go get a wet rag to clean it.”

He frowns, but doesn’t say anything.

“Stay here, I’ll be right back,” she says, but as soon as she walks off, he’s already wondering where someone else is, and as soon as she disappears behind the dull green canvas of it, he’s already figured it out.

So he leaves her, walks away to find Tatiana, because he doesn’t like seeing that pretty face of hers twisted up in pain, even if it is only a tiny flinch.

 

 

 

A last bastion—that is what it had been called. Python doesn’t care.

He’s running, as fast as his feet will take him, dragging Silque by the wrist as he does. She is fine, and he is determined to keep her that way.

They run down another column, trying to lose the knight that’s been chasing them down and Python sees someone familiar in the distance—it’s Forsyth, with Luthier and Delthea in tow, but they’re all the way at the end of the long column, too far to shout for.

He looks behind them, and sees no sign of the knight, so he pushes Silque into an alcove in the wall, squeezing in with her as he catches his breath.

He looks down at her breathless form, at her staring hard at his chest as she tries to catch it.

“You okay?” he asks, and her attention snaps back up to his face, her forehead sweating and her cheeks flushed from the run.

She nods, presses her lips into a firm line as she takes a gulp of air. She uses one hand to push back her soaked bangs from her eyes.

“Why did we stop?” she asks, and Python has a hard time moving in the tight space as he tries to count how many arrows he has left. Her body is in the way; he hits her head with his bow, her knees with his, she hits his throat with her healing rod.

“The knight is gonna be here any second,” he tells her, not sure if it’s three or four arrows left. “Forsyth and the others should be at the end of this row.”

“Yes, but why—?”

“ _So_ ,” he pauses, accidentally elbowing her in the head as he pulls his bow off his shoulder. “You’re gonna run for them while I hold this guy off.”

She looks up at him as if he’s just lost his mind, then shakes her head wildly, her hair swishing about beneath that headdress.

“Absolutely not, Python. No, no, no.”

“This isn’t something to argue about. We don’t _have_ _time_ to argue—“

“We can’t split up!” she says with a harsh whisper. “I won’t allow it!”

He lets out an annoyed sigh, and he watches as her face grows angry because of it.

“Listen to me—“ he tries, but she reaches out and grips his arm when he does.

“There’s no need to split up now, please don’t—“

“You need to get over there fast, they could be in trouble,” he counters, pulling her hand away from his arm. “If I hold this guy off, then you can get there safely.”

“But I’ll be safe with you, I can use my own magic to help, we could just keep run—“

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head as he hears the sound of footsteps and hooves echoing throughout the columns, and he realizes then that it’ll be more than just the knight joining them. “Your magic is nearly useless now, we won’t be as lucky as last time. We can’t run away forever.”

She looks hurt when he says it, but all that matters to him is that she makes it to Forsyth. He can’t have another accident like before.

“Just get to him and I’ll follow.”

“I’m not leaving you, Python! What will I do if something happens to you because I left?”

“Then that’s my problem not yours,” he says, and she lets out a frustrated noise that startles even him, but the footsteps are beginning to drown out everything else. He takes a chance and peeks out from their tiny alcove, and he sees then the foot soldier as well as a bow knight, and he curses.

Her eyes widen, and when she tries to peek as well he grabs her by the chin to pull her head back into the space, but she jerks it away from him so violently that it hits the wall. 

“You need to leave now,” he says, releasing her chin when she begins to protest. “I’ve got this.”

“Python, please—!”

“ _Gods_ , what’ll it take for you to just go?”

She seems to think for a moment but they no longer have time, so he pulls them out from the alcove and it’s when she sees the two coming toward them that she blurts it out.

“Promise you’ll come back to me,” she says, her voice sounding tight and strangled. “I won’t forgive you if you do anything more foolish than this.”

It won’t matter if she forgives him or not if he’s dead, but he doesn’t say this to her as he realizes that he doesn’t want to promise her anything, especially if it’s something he knows he can’t keep.

But he wants her safe and he needs to redeem himself, so he turns her around and pushes her.

“I promise,” he lies, and he pushes her again when she tries to turn back. “I’ll be right behind you.”

He doesn’t even give her time to respond as he pushes once more, and it’s with great reluctance that he sees her begin to run without looking back.

He pulls one of the arrows he has left out—three instead of four—and as he aims at the horse barreling towards him, he can only hope that the Mother has saved some luck for his poor blasphemous soul.

  

 

 

“Are you doing okay?”

The question startles her, makes her slightly jump as she looks up to see Forsyth standing there with a look of concern. She nods her head and gives him a small reassuring smile, though she knows that she is only lying to both herself and him when she does.

“No need to worry over me, Sir Forsyth,” she says, standing up from her seat on the lonely bench in the Rigelian castle’s hallway to politely bow, to which he returns the gesture.

“I just wanted to make sure. A lot has happened in the last day alone.”

She sighs, sitting back down on the bench. She never thought that she’d ever return home, let alone to see things through like _this_.

“I always thought Alm was meant to be a leader, but the heir to who we thought was our enemy? It’s quite...”

His voice trails off, scratching his head as he thinks of a word, and Silque lets out a half laugh as she looks up at the tall man. She had thought he was just the least bit intimidating before, but she had quickly learned he was quite the opposite.

“Almost unbelievable?” she suggests, and he nods quickly in agreement. “It certainly was an unforeseen outcome.”

“Perhaps but...” he pauses, looking at her nervously before looking down the empty hallway, the only sound coming from servants somewhere in the distance. “The rumors of what is happening to our gods...how do you feel about that?”

“Oh,” she lets out in a single breath, suddenly finding the long white skirts of her robes much more interesting. How _did_ she feel about that?

She feels like she wants to throw up. If Mila truly was in such danger, if the War Father and the Earth Mother really did destroy each other...what was she to do?

What could she do?

Everything she does now is in honor of the Mother and in the glorious name of Mila. Every person she’s healed, every life she’s taken, it’s all been for the only mother that’s ever loved her.

 _That’s not fair_ , she thinks, frowning at the intrusive thought. _My mother loved me very dearly, otherwise she would not have sent me away like she did. She did it for my safety_.

That’s what she likes to believe anyway; it’s what she told herself for months when she had first arrived on Novis, the nights when the tears would not stop flowing and sleep never seemed to come. She learned very quickly that she would never know the full reason as to why, so she had made her own in hopes that the wounds wouldn’t sting as bad.

She wishes the Mother’s magic worked on the heart as it did the broken bones and bloodied skin—but alas, if things were that easy then there would be nothing to learn from life.

She feels a stomach twisting anxiety at the mere thought of the Mother and her fate—this wasn’t right. How did a god’s fate become so tragic? It was humans who were supposed to live and die in great glory and humility, not the gods. None of this was fair.

“I feel helpless,” she says though, as simply as if she’s talking about what she last ate, and he nods his head wordlessly, a very somber expression on his face.

“An unforeseen outcome,” he restates, and she nods in agreement as well.

Forsyth is kind, she thinks though, as a heavy silence falls between them. He was courageous and brave and honest with himself when others would not be; there wasn’t much left to be desired when it came to him.

“Have you eaten?”

He breaks the silence; she can tell that it makes him nervous.

She smiles slightly, nodding her head once again. “I have. The servants here are very kind to all of us in the Deliverance.”

“It’s a little jarring,” he admits, scratching at the back of his head. “Only yesterday were they our sworn enemy, and now they’re trying to give us feasts.”

“Indeed,” she sighs, and she lets a silence grow between them again for only a moment more before she asks a question that’s begun to pick at her mind.

“Python is not with you?” she tries to ask as nonchalantly as she can, but she watches as Forsyth raises a brow, a very amused look crossing his face.

“I was on my way to find him when I stumbled upon you,” he says. “I would’ve thought he’d be with you.”

She tries her best not to frown as she thinks of the archer, but she can taste a certain kind of acidity sitting on her tongue as she does.

“I have not seen him since the battle outside,” she says, and even she can hear the creeping bitterness that shouldn’t be there. “Maybe he is with Tatiana.”

She doesn’t know why she says it in such a way, but Forsyth gives her a peculiar look.

“Why would he be with Tatiana?”

She shrugs her shoulders, trying her best to seem ambivalent about the idea.

“I don’t know. He just seems to favor her these days.”

Forsyth lets out a confused laugh, and she looks up at him to see that he is quite perplexed. “And why do you say that?”

“I’m not sure,” she says, and yet she thinks she knows why, but even so, she doesn’t like this ugly feeling.

She doesn’t want to call it jealousy but she knows deep down that that is what the word truly is.

And yet she knows it is selfish to have a want like the one she does now. The desire to be the only one that can heal him, even through the pain that he gives her—but she can’t help that the selfish wish beats at her chest constantly when she sees the Rigelian saint covering his wounds with her hands. 

Ever since she had been taken in by the priory, it had been drilled through her head that Mila did not tolerate selfishness, that those who were selfish would corrupt themselves in the end and they had no place in her kingdom—but it had also been proven to her over and over again that maybe that wasn’t so. The corrupt and selfish flourished in Zofia, just as they did in Rigel. It was the entire cause of this war.

Though she would have to admit that perhaps all of those who were selfish were finally getting what they deserved, the Deliverance truly delivering them of their awful deeds in the name of Zofia and her benefactor—perhaps that meant her own retribution was coming soon as well.

But she can’t help it when her mind tells her that Python is _her_ friend, and she wants him to desire only _her_ magic words, make her feel special in the way that he had chosen _her_ over the more experienced woman. She scolds herself every time she has such thoughts—such immature follies were never good, and would only lead to miserable feelings.

It had started immediately after the battle of the lasts bastion, the feeling is strongest when he had walked right past her, straight over to a smiling Tatiana, and the thought that it should be herself smiling up at him instantly had made her stomach turn and her heart feel heavy—he had made a promise to _her_ , not Tatiana.

But wasn’t fair to Tatiana or to Python.

Tatiana was a kind woman who had helped lighten Silque’s workload dramatically, someone that she looked up to and told many things. With her here, there was no longer a constant aching in Silque’s body and not as much blood on her hands. She is grateful for her, could never repay her for the tremendous burden she had taken on with her, and she feels awful for ever having thoughts of such ugly jealousy.

And Python has every right to pick and choose who he would rather heal him. Maybe she had done something to throw him off, or maybe Tatiana’s magic really was better than hers—he had said once that the Rigelian woman was faster at it.

It only leaves Silque confused as her wants clash with her sensibilities; she’s never had such conflicting interests, and never one as hideous as this.

Forsyth breaks her thoughts by laughing then, and she looks up once again with only plain confusion.

“What is so funny?”

He clears his throat, a lopsided smile on his face.

“Python once called me a ‘jealous bastard’ for complaining about how you two spend too much time together,” he says with another laugh. He raises a brow. “Is that how you’re feeling now?”

Her own eyebrows raise, and she momentarily wonders if Forsyth has some sort of mind reading power.

“You complained about me and him?” she asks, and he sheepishly looks away, as if he’s suddenly ashamed.

She never thought of what her time with Python did to Forsyth, and she realizes then that all of her feelings must be the same as his—and so the awful gut feeling begins to ease away.

“Ever since we were teenagers, Python has always been one to try and get the... _best_ out of people,” he begins, his face turning slightly red.

Her eyebrows furrow, not sure what he means.

“He’s of course never very successful, but even when he’s sober, he tries to—“

He stops himself, once again looking for the appropriate thing to say. “Let’s just say that I was afraid for a while that he would grow up to be someone immoral.”

“Immoral?” she asks, the word feeling gross in her mouth as she feels her face heat up, suddenly understanding.

Forsyth nods. “I was afraid he would try something with you—the pretty, innocent thing that didn’t know better. He’s always insisted that he’s never cared to try but...”

She shakes her head, her stomach suddenly twisting again. Python had never once tried anything _immoral_ with her.

“He’s never done anything like that. Even when he’s drunk.”

“I’m relieved then,” he says with a sigh, placing his hands behind his back. “He’s probably too lazy to give much of a chase.”

A chase?

She frowns. What was there to chase?

“I suppose he won’t get very far with _Tatiana_ though if General Ezekiel is in the way,” he seems to say mainly to himself, and it’s then that she lets out a noise of confusion, startling even herself as she realizes it.

Forsyth tries to backpedal, fumbling over his words as she can only look up at him with an unwelcome feeling growing within her chest.

“Uh, forgive me,” he settles for, running a hand through his hair. “None of this is exactly appropriate to speak about. It’s unbecoming to gossip like this when Python is not here to defend himself.”

“I...” she trails off, not exactly sure what to say to that.

“If Python is giving you troubles, I will happily speak with him on your behalf,” he suggests, but she slowly shakes her head as she tries to gather all of her scattered thoughts.

“It’s fine, Sir Forsyth, I’m afraid that I just overthink things. I know he makes you worry, but Python really is a good man.”

 _I know better than to act like this_ , she thinks to herself, and the heavy feeling in her chest seems to ease up a little, the air becoming a little easier to breathe.

Forsyth looks her over for a long moment before finally extending his hand; she raises a brow at it.

“Then I think we should find him together,” he says with a small smile, and she takes his hand, standing from the lonely bench in the cold and lifeless hallway of Rigel’s castle. “I’m sure Tatiana must be tired of him by now, if that is who he is with.”

She laughs, and the feeling eases up even more, and she realizes then that worries never lasted forever, that they are not rooted in stone like it first feels.

“I’m sure the general will be able to handle him,” she says back, wrapping her arm around the one that he offers to her.

“If that’s the case, then I’m afraid we should hurry. Python will break like a stick. Again.”

She laughs again, harder at the thought of the ever taunting Python cowering in fear before the older man. What a sight that would be.

“How do you think he would feel to see us conspiring against him together like this?” she asks, watching her feet as they move across the stone floor.

“He just might have a heart attack from all of the stress of what we might say to one another.”

She smiles.

“Then come along,” she says, pulling on his arm as they walk down the hall. “I suppose we must save him.”

Forsyth chuckles, then sighs.

“It seems like that is all you ever do.”

 

 

 

 

Fernand is dead, but Python isn’t exactly sure how he’s supposed to feel.

He’s never liked the stuffy noble or his ugly antics towards anyone in a station lower than him, but Python has never really wished death upon the man because of it. Clair and Clive had always insisted that Fernand was the best of men, someone good at heart, but he was just dealing with things that no one else could really understand. Python called it bullshit, but kept his mouth shut about it.

But now the man is dead and Python can feel only ambivalent. He certainly wasn’t sad but he also wasn’t cheering in the streets, especially with the way that Clair keeps sniffling trying to hold in the tears, or the way that Clive speaks with a hoarse voice, his face looking as if he’s aged ten years.

That Rigelian prince is dead as well, his soul and body burned up by his lady, everything else taken by Duma, but Python doesn’t really care. It’s one less thing that can kill him.

But a new threat had been opened when one was closed, and a fight with gods was coming when they had thought that the empire was the worst of their problems.

He feels a tug at his waist, and he turns to look beside him, a very worried face peeking up at him through the darkness of the temple.

“You’re very tense,” Silque says quietly, and he remembers that she’s holding onto the back of his belt to keep herself from getting lost in the darkness.

“Am I?” he asks flatly, raising a brow. “Didn’t even notice.”

She sighs, pulling herself up closer so that he can hear her lowered voice as they walk, the walls of this place picking up every little thing to bounce it back around. Terrors were no big thing, but energy should be saved for the final battle that looms ahead.

As they pass beneath a torch held fast to the wall, he can see the redness plaguing her nose and eyes, the news from Alm that the Mother had a sword stuck in her skull certainly not a happy thing to learn.

“I—“ she begins to say, but she stops herself with a sad sigh, her eyebrows furrowing up. She’s been doing it since they had left the vault.

He turns his attention back to the front, staring hard at Forsyth’s back, the lance attached to it, and for the first time in a long time, he feels a heartbreaking dread building up in his chest.

Rigelian soldiers were easy to deal with. An intimidating and ruthless emperor was not that bad. A possessed man who had everything to lose was nothing they couldn’t handle.

But a god, and the War Father no less, was far out of their reach, a hopeless feat that not even the most ambitious of kids would dream about. To fight Duma was absolute and certain death.

And he can only sit back and watch as a supposed fate was played out before all of them, one that they maybe were or weren’t supposed to be a part of. Python wants to laugh at the thought of it all—he never thought that this would be his end when he and Forsyth had left home for the final time.

What was the final time he said goodbye to his parents even like? It’s been so long now he can’t even remember, and he’s not sure if that should bother him with death looming so closely.

His poor mother would worry herself sick when she heard of the news, his father would throw himself into work, and Python will be dead because he was chasing a dream that was never really his.

He feels an anxiety that he’s grown accustomed to creep up even further, and as he stares at Forsyth’s back he makes a mental note to tell him that he’s been the best friend he could’ve ever asked for, even if he had dragged him into the Deliverance unwillingly. Later though, when no one else was around—if he could find a time before their scheduled deaths.

“Python,” he hears her voice barely push out, and he looks back at her again to see her looking straight ahead. “There is something I must confess to you now.”

He raises a brow; that certainly wasn’t a good way to start.

“I must get all of these burdens off my chest before we die,” she says then, and he can only wonder what sort of burden she could possibly have that she felt needed to be shared with him.

“So you’re still repenting,” he says quietly. “Even after her death.”

 _Right before your own_ , he desires to say.

“She is not dead,” she whispers back, her voice cracking at the end. “She is still here, she just—“

He listens as she takes a deep breath, trying her best to school her emotions. The physical body was gone, he knows she wants to say, but the soul of the Mother was still there.

But even he knows just how hard it is to believe in something when there is no physical thing to hold on to, nothing there to touch. If he cannot see it with his eyes and feel it beneath his fingertips, how was he supposed to trust in it to be there for him?

“It is hard to accept the fact, even when I know I should without second thoughts.”

He finds himself slightly leaning toward her when she speaks now, her voice so quiet, as if she’s afraid the Mother’s soul will reprimand her words herself.

 _I understand_ , is what he wants to say, but he is sure that he truly doesn’t.

He doesn’t understand the pain in her voice and he doesn’t understand the worry in her eyes and he doesn’t understand her grip on his belt. He doesn’t understand any of it, so he doesn’t understand how to comfort her when she calls out to him in ways that aren’t verbal.

She tugs on his belt again gently, and he leans in closer, their footsteps and the distant chatter of others being the only sound between them for a long moment.

“I never told you that I am from Rigel,” she suddenly says then, her voice barely held in a single breath, and he feels his eyebrows furrow. “But I figured you should know.”

He turns again to look at her, but she stares at the floor as they walk, yet there is no part of Python that is completely surprised.

The way she was so careful around Tatiana and Zeke when they would speak of home, the way she seemed to know things about the land that others would not, the way the cold air never seemed to reach her quite like it did the others.

“My mother was a cleric, you know, but she served Duma instead of Mila.”

He’s silent as he watches her grip the healing rod in her other hand tightly, and he finally understands what she means when she speaks of Mila being a mother when she no longer had one.

“Now we are off to seal him away and I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“Happy, I suppose.”

She shakes her head. “No. The gods were here for a reason. But now that they might not be here anymore...it feels as if everything that I stand for is falling apart.”

“Silque...”

She looks up at him, and she looks young and scared, much like she should, but it pains even Python to see it.

“I want to be sure in myself and Mila’s choices like I know she would want me to be...but it feels as if she’s leaving me behind. I am not so accepting of that fact.”

 _It’s okay to feel like that_ , he thinks, _hate her, spite her,_ _curse her and every little pain that she’s put you through_. But he keeps the thought to himself as he looks at her and only feels pity and nothing else.

“I know...that you’ve never really cared for the Mother or any of her teachings,” she says, her breathing almost ragged. “But...I trust you with my thoughts.”

He stays silent still and he can tell that she doesn’t like that as he feels her hand move from his belt to tug at his sleeve.

He’s not sure he wants to be trusted with her thoughts—not sure if he should be—but what was he to do now that she had given them to him? He thinks that she is too nice and too kind, too trusting and too distracted to realize that he is not who she thinks he is, just like how she was never how he thought she was, the picture becoming just a bit clearer only recently, little lessons learned far too late.

“You haven’t said anything about...what I told you.”

“What do you want me to say?”

She wraps her hand around his arm gently, and he wants to throw it off, tell her for the final time that he cannot save her from her own despair—but he doesn’t.

“You don’t care?” she asks, and he scoffs, finding the thought somewhat funny.

“Why should I? None of that matters anymore.”

“I—I suppose you’re right,” she says, her voice shaking. “It’s just...old habits die hard, I guess. The fissure between gods and nations was too great for so long.”

He tries focusing on the sounds of footsteps rather than her words, but he’ll never get that voice out of his head.

“How many others have you told?”

“Only Alm and Tatiana...”

He feels himself crack a bitter smile. “So I’m lucky number three.”

“Python...”

He turns to her again, finding the look on her own face very despairing. He’s already missing that soft knowing smile, the rare devilish grin, and he finds his chest tight as he thinks that this will be his last image of her.

She was so young, so full of life and ambition when he knows that he would never be, so he looks at her and he thinks of how cruel the world is to cover her in blood and leave her heart writhing in pain.

His eyes wander back to Forsyth’s back, and it takes all of the pride he has left in him to pull her hand off of his arm and capture it in his own.

“Don’t doubt yourself,” he says quietly. “Things will be alright.”

“You...” she says, but he would have to guess that it is all she can say.

“When this is all over, tell me what it was like when you were still here. In Rigel, I mean.”

She lets out a small breath, and he knows that’s she’s straining her eyes through the darkness to look at their hands.

And it’s then that he sends a quiet prayer out to her second Mother, asking that if she truly was still out there in soul and spirit—just not body—that she protect the ones that he knows he cannot. He wants the Mother to prove him wrong, and he wouldn’t mind being cast into hell for his impieties so long as the green haired knight and the blue haired healer still walked the earth long after he did.

It’s when she squeezes his hand though that he thinks his prayers just might be answered, and so he smiles as he thinks of how he’ll have to show the world one final time that nobody—not even gods—is invincible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHO IS READY FOR THE FINALE??????? I'm getting excited just thinking about writing it (so much so that I actually started writing that one before this one LOL). I mentioned in a comment last chapter that I would be making a short one or two chapter epilogue type fic (NO LONGER THAN TWO I SWEAR), so it's not completely over just yet!!! Thank you so much to everyone for reading and commenting I really cannot put into words how much it means to me.


	10. parting gifts and fond farewells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAA I FEEL SO NERVOUS POSTING THIS BUT??? Longest chapter by far, probably the most out of character, and a week later than I wanted to post but it was important to me to deliver a good last chapter (though I'm sure there will be some small mistakes...as there always is lol) BUT I hope that you will all enjoy this, and thank you so much for sticking with it this far and reading and commenting.

A war has been won.

There is silence as the dust settles, as the realization that they are alive and it’s over begins to set in. Python pulls himself up off the ground, pulls his lost boot out from the rubble. It’s when he stands fully that he realizes that he’s survived and that everything was indeed alright.

Their war has been won.

It doesn’t take long for the cheers of triumph and victory to break through the heavy silence in the air. Python watches as many begin to cling on to their friends, their loved ones, and Python thinks to find Forsyth.

He doesn’t have to go very far.

As soon as he spies that mop of green hair and the matching armor, Python breaks out into a smile, then breaks out into a jog, slapping his friend on the back as hard as he can once he reaches him.

Forsyth turns to look at him, but for once it isn’t with anger or annoyance, it’s with a bright eye smile, the most genuine of his that Python has seen in quite some time.

He slaps his hands onto Python’s shoulders, and Python grasps Forsyth’s cheeks with his own bloodied hands, shaking the man with a laugh as words no longer could begin to describe the pure and utter relief that they feel.

“I haven’t seen you smile that big in years!” Forsyth says, and Python’s laughter grows louder, his care for whoever might hear him nonexistent.

“That’s because we’ve never won a war before!” he exclaims, and Forsyth joins in on the laughter as excitement takes over.

It’s a happy feeling, and Python enjoys it.

He feels light and giddy, like he’s just won all the riches in the world, and maybe, if he asked the _new king_ nicely enough, he could _have_ all the riches he desired—though he didn’t desire much at the moment besides a good, long nap.

Much of the next hour passes in a blur as they begin to regroup, as they begin to celebrate, and Python has laughed so much, shaken so many hands and clapped so many shoulders that he can no longer remember exactly where he had started, and faces begin to blur. He can only hope that the alcohol will come out soon.

But it doesn’t matter much because he’s alive, and he’d never thought that the war would end like this, by killing gods. It’s a miracle he even made it past the sluice gate and into Rigel.

He doesn’t see her though, and he can only imagine all of the emotions she must be feeling knowing that the only thing she had left in the world was now physically gone.

“The Mother will always walk with us,” is what he imagines she would say with a tough face, or maybe even through drying tears, and he thinks it’s very fitting, very her. It’s a very comforting thought whether he ever believed in Mila or not.

“The world will be celebrating and mourning for days,” Lukas says from beside Python through all the commotion, a lopsided smile on his face. “A new era is upon us.”

“Think the kid will make me a lord?” he asks half-jokingly, but Lukas chuckles, closing his eyes at the thought.

“I’m sure half of the people here will be knighted by the end of next week. Alm will be a generous ruler.”

“Maybe a little too generous,” Python replies, shaking his head at the thought. “People are gonna try and take advantage of him.”

“Then I suppose it’s a great thing that he will have so many knights and good friends by his side,” Lukas says, a very calm and reassuring tone to his voice, a very soft and tender expression crossing his face as he looks out at the army. “None of those kids will ever let each other down.”

Python stops to think for a moment, watching as Forsyth makes his third time around celebrating and congratulating everyone. It’s a very merry sight.

“What about you then? Are you gonna be one of those people? Or are you finally gonna return home to that special lady you got?”

Lukas only lets out a sigh at the thought of her, a very bittersweet smile crossing his face as he shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, and it makes Python think that the redhead will finally start to relax now that this war is over. 

“You were right in suggesting that some things are just not meant to be,” he says, looking down at the ground with that smile. “I don’t think I will return home for a long, long time, if at all. I am much happier here.”

Python laughs, and wraps his arm around Lukas’s shoulders, patting his cheek with his other hand.

“Then we’re on for drinks,” Python tells him. “Whether its next week or next year, you owe me.”

Lukas sighs but nods his head anyways, pushing the arm off of him. “If you get drunk though, I will not be the one to carry you home. You’ll be stuck by yourself with your hangover. Things will be a lot different then.”

Python’s brows furrow as he realizes that things now will never be like how they were again. Forsyth will not always be there to egg him on, he will not always be there to drag him home, no one will always be there to push his head up in the morning so that he doesn’t fall into his own mess of regrets. This war was something temporary as well as everything that had happened in it, and yet Python isn’t prepared for the permanent outcomes.

“I think it’s time we wrap up here and continue our celebration back somewhere else for the night. Tomorrow afternoon, we’re planning on moving back to the Rigelian castle to completely regroup before returning to Zofia. The snow may keep us in Rigel for longer than we thought.”

Lukas stops himself, then furrows his brows.

“Or I suppose we are just one kingdom now—Valentia. Things are changing but they will go back to the way they used to be so long ago. But the world will be better this time as we learn from our predecessors’ mistakes.”

“A happy ending,” Python mutters, his throat suddenly feeling tight at the uncertainty of it all. He has no plans to be a knight like the rest of them—but he has no plans for what else he might do either.

Python wonders if he’ll just wander the land, become something like a vagrant, or maybe return home to the tiny town where he and Forsyth had grown up, though this time without his best friend. Carpentry was always an option, but Python would literally rather die than ever pick up a hammer again—he had just survived the war that united warring nations for crying out loud.

It’s not that he doesn’t have things to turn to, doesn’t have options to choose or opportunities to take. Python has plenty as someone who was a Deliverance member. It’s that nothing jumps out at him, nothing inspires or sparks any type of passion within him that makes him think he simply has to do it, and he doubts any of them would. He feels ambivalent about all of his options.

He glances over at the army, how two had become one and how sides had begun to mingle as if they had been together from the very beginning. Celica had young soldiers as well as Alm did, and Celica had hidden Rigelians as well as Alm did too. He thinks it’s interesting how two different armies on opposite sides of the country had ended up in the same place, and he thinks it’s interesting that a certain blue haired healer smiles so brightly at a blond and burly man that just so happened to be from that other side.

“If you decide to drink, I ask that you _try_ to hold back,” Lukas interrupts his thoughts, indicating that he must leave to contain his rowdy kids. “You know you cry when you drink.”

Python laughs, raises a brow.

“I’ve never cried. Ever. Not once in my life.”

That makes Lukas chuckle, and Python thinks he doesn’t look too bad with a smile. He also thinks of just how interesting things might be once he finally has that drink with him— _oh_ , how Python would be waiting for that day.

“No matter,” Lukas says with a wave, that smile already fading. “We’re champions of the gods and their war either way. Best of luck to you.”

“And to you,” Python mutters, watching as he walks away, that face that he’s seen on his own mother when he knew he was in trouble. He himself turns to leave, hoping to find better company.

To find Forsyth and the bitter liquor—what a reception for a victor of the gods.

 

 

 

Cold air creeps up her neck even with a fire burning so brightly in the center of the temple vault. Silque does not like having to stay the night within the temple of the former War Father, but Lukas had told her that it’d be better to rest within it now and make for the floor where they could head back to the castle the following day. She had only hesitantly agreed, said she understood, and left the man to his own devices

The army was too tired to travel back up the tower—but not too tired to celebrate vivaciously throughout the night it seemed. She thinks that perhaps everyone is being tainted languid thoughts; she doesn’t see why they couldn’t celebrate back at the castle, and instead had to dance on the grave of a former god.

But she would have to guess that it doesn’t matter, and it didn’t hurt to celebrate like this _that_ much. A war _had_ been won after all, and against gods no less. To celebrate by doing anything less than spending the night whiling away seemed plain silly.

Though there’s a dull ache in her chest that only serves to remind her that a part of her is no longer here, even as the people around her cheer with such delight. A piece of her was gone, just like the gods were, and though she wants to believe it is for the better, that ache tells her something contrary to the thought.

Magic still seemed to work for everyone that used it, and she is only thankful that the Mother and Father had left those gifts behind for their children—but deep within her resides a childish want and it wishes that they never had to leave at all.

As the large fire crackles within the center of the vault, and people laugh and dance and sing and drink, she begins to wonder just where that left her in the world, if not with the others celebrating.

To return to the priory on Novis when she knew of all that was out there beyond the island beaches seemed unsettling now. What was there that she could not learn on the mainland? Who was there that she could not teach someplace else? She was reminded of many things from before, and she had so much more knowledge now that she doesn’t think she could’ve ever learned from the elders in that tiny priory on that tiny island of Novis.

It’s not as though she isn’t thankful to the people who took her in there, it’s just that Jesse had reminded her earlier in the night of their first meeting, of how foolish she had been to not notice the men following her, and how she knows much better now.

“A worldly woman, and in such a short amount of time,” is what he had said to her, and she couldn’t help but feel pride and confidence swell up within her at the thought.

 _To go back to the life on Novis_ , she thinks, watching as the villagers try to convince Lukas to let them have just _one_ drink.

The hot sand, the smell of salt in the air, the _fish_ —even though it had been home to her for so long, it all seemed wrong now.

She can feel the smile on her face grow ever so slightly as she tries to push the worries away and at least enjoy the night. Decisions could always be made in the tomorrow that they have now officially secured, as she’s sure that many of her comrades will regret the ones that they’ve made tonight.

She stands on the outside and watches and smiles and laughs at the others’ merriment, but the feelings are fleeting as she begins to realize that she’s only feeding off of the others excitement. She wonders if she can find a sober enough and tolerable companion, and she remembers then that she had seen Genny with the rest of Lady Celica’s group earlier, and she hopes then that the young cleric had missed her as much as she did.

She looks around, trying to spy that head of pink and curly hair, but her eye catches a certain blue instead.

It’s a quick eye contact first, then a fast averting of the gaze, and she suddenly feels embarrassed as she remembers all that she said to him when she thought they were going to die.

Though she would loathe to admit it, she was ready for it; things seemed hopeless yet the only thing that she _could_ hope for was that she would die with the Mother’s memory—and then he had grabbed her by the hand and assured her that everything would be alright, just like he always did, and it seemed like maybe he would be right, just like he always was.

His hand had been warm against her cold fingers, and when the time came for him to release them, she had then secretly hoped that he would never let go—but she knew what good childish wishes did for anyone, and had reluctantly pushed that thought out of her head along with his hand. And then they had defeated a god.

It isn’t until she feels the hand around her arm that she looks up, so startled by the realization that it’s _him_ who’s there with her that she lets out a small yelp.

“Why aren’t you celebrating?” he asks her, and she can smell the alcohol on him. She’s not surprised to look down and see an open bottle of wine in his other hand; if Python wasn’t drinking then she’s sure it couldn’t be a _real_ party.

“You know me,” she says, gently brushing his hand off her arm as she tries to calm her racing heart. “I don’t drink.”

He scoffs, an amused smile crossing his face, and she momentarily thinks of how nice that smile has always been—how the corners of his sharp eyes crinkle up when he laughs at something he’s said, the way his nose wrinkles when he’s mocking Forsyth, the way it softens up when he looks at her.

She bites the inside of her cheek as she thinks of that, suddenly confused by the thought.

“You don’t need to drink to have fun,” he says, raising a brow as he proceeds to take a swig from the bottle before holding it out to her. “Though it would help a little.”

“Maybe I should take this away from you,” she playfully threatens, and he laughs at her, taking another sip.

“You’re _so_ boring,” he complains, dragging out his words as he takes a step closer to her then. “I think maybe you’ll grow up to be mean and boring like _Lukas_.”

“Lukas is a fine man,” she returns, watching him warily as he laughs again, nearly choking on the bitter drink.

“As fine as me?” he asks, his eyebrows rising, and she feels her own furrow. “Sure he’s handsome, but is he as _charming_ as I am?”

This time she’s the one to laugh. “I would not call you charming when you are halfway to drunk and choking.”

He sighs wistfully, closing his eyes with a dopey smile as he drinks again, and she finds it just a tad bit amusing. He lets out a satisfying noise as he looks at her over the bottle.

“Come now, I’m always putting on my best for you. You don’t even notice?”

He pretends to pout, but her eyes widen at the words, confusion settling in. She folds her arms over her chest as his lips meet the bottle once more.

“You’re not making sense.”

He shakes his head, surprising her by giving a very patronizing look. “You’re just not understanding. Maybe you should join me and drink for once.”

Looking at the bottle in his hands, she raises a brow and watches as he holds it out to her with a look that’s almost mocking. She looks him over once, takes in his disheveled appearance and his half stilted stance, and she wonders how much more alcohol it’ll take for him to start crying in front of everyone. Not too much more if she was lucky.

Reluctantly, she takes the bottle from his hands, but grips the neck of it tightly in her own, watching him warily as he waits for her to take a drink. 

When she doesn’t move for a long moment, he takes a step towards her, nearly closing whatever gap they had between them by taking her cheeks into his hands, squishing them between his palms until her lips form an involuntary pout. She nearly chokes on air as he does, her body going rigid and her grip around the bottle growing tighter. Her stomach flips as he stares down at her, and her mind goes blank when he smiles once again, and all she can think of is how his hands are _warm_.

He’s _always_ been most unpredictable when drunk, that she knows well now, and she absolutely _hates_ it.

“Even though she’s gone, you’re still gonna be a good girl?” he asks, his eyebrows rising, and the sting that she thought she had pushed out of her mind for the night makes its way back around.  “You’ll still pray for all the lost souls out there? Still pray to her even though she’s really gone now?”

Her lips part and her teeth clench; how very _Python_ to rub salt into bloody and raw wounds.

“Tell me,” he says, his hands relaxing just a little to let her face breathe. “Have you ever once prayed for _me_?”

She blinks, not quite sure what he’s asking, and it takes a moment for her to process it all as she thinks about it, about what he means. She can barely nod, trying not to focus on the feeling of his rough palms against her cheeks and how he had held them the same way once before on the battlefield.

“Of course,” she says, her features softening. “I’ve prayed for you many times. I’ve prayed for _all_ of us many times.”

He scoffs, gives her a disbelieving look as he raises a brow. She instinctively wants to shy away from his gaze, but she has nowhere to run to, so she settles on dripping her sight to the collar of his shirt.

“You pray for me because you like me though, don’t you?”

“I like you very much.”

“More than the rest?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

He laughs as he releases one of her cheeks, instead moving his hand to her forehead to push all of the bangs back off of her face. Her breath hitches at the contact, her mind feels foggy, and she can only pick out confusion from her pit of emotions.

“Still won’t play favorites,” he muses, and the face he gives her then as he looks down at her makes her heart beat wildly in her chest. She doesn’t like it.

“Python—“

“I’ll still tell Forsyth that you told me I was your favorite anyways,” he says then, giving her a devilish smile. She was beginning to hope that somehow Forsyth would come around and interrupt just like he so often did.

But she lets out a sudden bewildered laugh, one that surprises even her, and Python tilts his head in confusion.

“Imagine his face if he were to walk by and see you right now.”

Python groans, drops both his hands from her face and the unnatural air around him dissipates with a disappointment.

“ _Must_ you ruin all the fun?” he asks flatly, and she slightly laughs, unconsciously pushing back her bangs from her face just as he did, running her hand back until it hits the edge of her headdress. “Maybe you’ll grow up to be like him instead of Lukas. I hope not—he’s _always_ got a stick up his—“

“Where is Sir Forsyth right now?” she interrupts, looking around the large vault, the light of the large fire in the middle not doing much to help her find him. “I think it’s best if you retire for the night.”

“And leave you with my bottle of wine? I think not.”

“You really shouldn’t have any more of this, Python...”

“I’ll stop when I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

She frowns. “It seems like you already don’t.”

“Silque,” he says with a pout. She feels her cheeks flush under that intense gaze once again, and she begins to wonder if it’s normal to feel this way every time he says her name—especially when it’s not said that often.

He reaches out for the bottle, but she instinctively holds it out of his reach, earning her a raised brow and a very mischievous look. She didn’t understand the appeal of alcohol, nor did she like the consequences of it.

It’s bitter, he often says, and he likes it best like that. She’s always liked sweets, never tried wine, but she wonders then if his lips taste just as bitter as the alcohol that he drinks.

She nearly drops the bottle as she realizes what she’s thinking, shaking her head so violently as if to shake the thought out from it. It’s foolish to think so, but with her foggy mind, she wonders if it’s possible to be drunk on something other than wine.

It’s then that she hears Forsyth’s loud and thunderous laugh, and she peeks around Python to see him talking with someone from Celica’s side; she lets out an audible sigh of relief.

“Sir Forsyth!” she calls out as she steps around Python, and she is happy to see him snap his head towards the sound, giving her a puzzled look before excusing himself.

Python’s already begun to complain about his friend before she can even think to shush him. When Forsyth reaches them, he looks them over, his brow furrowing as he sees the bottle in her hand, as he must smell the strong scent of wine on Python, and he gives her an apologetic look.

“Anymore of this and he will soon be too far gone,” she pushes out, shoving the bottle into Forsyth’s hands as if it burns. “I wouldn’t want him to embarrass himself in front of so many people.”

Forsyth awkwardly looks down at the bottle as Python snorts and wraps one arm around his friend, the other hand around the neck of the bottle. Forsyth pushes him away.

“Maybe we should let him embarrass himself,” he says, looking her over suspiciously. “Maybe he will finally learn when it’s time to stop.”

“Sir Forsyth,” she tries to chide, but she’s too shaken up from her unwanted thoughts to give it much of an effort.

“You’re a _bastard_ ,” Python sings, tugging at the green hair. “I know you’ve been drinking too. But trying to scold me in front of our darling healer? Where are your manners?”

“Python,” he warns, but Python simply laughs, patting the man on the cheek before turning to walk away.

She watches him warily, wringing her hands as she tries and tries to push any and all thoughts of him out and away. It doesn’t work well.

Forsyth lets out a long sigh, once more examining the bottle in his hands, and Silque isn’t sure what to say. _I’m sorry? Please take him away? Your friend is saying things that I’m not sure how to feel about?_

None of it seemed good enough to say.

“I’m sure he’ll be by in the morning to apologize,” Forsyth says quietly though, glancing up at her for a quick moment. “I will not let him burden you when you should be celebrating such a feat.”

“He’s not...I don’t...”

Her voice trails off, not quite sure she wants to finish the thought.

“Don’t worry about him. I’ll make sure he makes it through the night.”

She looks down at the ground, reaches up to push hair beneath her headdress. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t want to move. She feels as if she’s stuck in a hole and she’s suddenly not quite sure how to climb her way out.

“He’s got to get used to you not being around. He won’t wake up to you forever,” he says, and she watches as Python has stumbled away to another group of soldiers with unfinished bottles of wine.

Forsyth follows her gaze and lets out an incredible sigh before quickly apologizing once more, giving her a shallow bow before leaving her there to stand and watch as he chases after him to scold his friend.

“No, he won’t,” she says quietly, only to herself, and the realization hits her that his habits have become routine to her.

How weird it would feel to awaken in the morning somewhere other than the medical tent, and how weird it would be to not hear his retching as the sun comes up when she knows he was drowning in bitter drinks the night before.

She’s not sure if she should miss that or not, but she decides not to think too much on it as she tries to find somewhere quiet to be, the thought of companionship no longer all that appealing.

And when the party seems to finally die down and she finds herself staring up at the tall and menacing ceilings of the temple, she’s left alone with her thoughts and not his drunken words, and she’s no longer sure how she feels about _that_.

 

 

 

It’s in the castle library that he finds her, perusing the many books in what seemed like an endless array of them. The old and musty smell of brittle paper and dried out ink reminds him somewhat of Forsyth’s house, so he stops behind a bookshelf to watch her as a heavy nostalgia hits him.

Her slender and nimble fingers run up the spine of an old leather book, her index finger stopping at the top to gently pull it out, looking over the cover carefully, thoughtfully. She reads through the first page, and then closes the book shut, pausing to address someone.

He doesn’t even notice the small girl standing next to her—extremely small as the blue haired healer is already small enough as it is—until she turns her head to quietly speak with her, showing her the first few pages of the book. He thinks he recognizes this girl as one of the kids from Celica’s side—the timid one with short, pink hair that he had seen her with once before after they first arrived back at the castle.

They speak lowly, he strains to even try to get a hint as to what they might be saying, but he knows he is foolish for thinking that he would ever even hear it.

So he steps out from behind the tall wooden bookshelf and makes his way down the row towards them, watching with some amusement as the smaller girl notices him first, her eyes widening just a bit in surprise. She quickly taps on Silque’s shoulder, and she turns to see what she is pointing at.

Python is only relieved when she turns her head towards him and the small confusion turns into a sweet smile as he reaches her, immediately placing the book into his hands.

“Ah, Python,” she says, and she looks quite content as she pulls another book from the shelf to give to him. “I’m glad you came.”

He can only hum his acknowledgement as he looks down at the two books warily, not quite sure what she wants him to do with them.

“I’m not sure if you’ve met her yet, but this is Genny,” she tells him, introducing the smaller girl. “She’s from the same priory that I am from.”

“The little island place.”

“Yes,” she says, ignoring his small jab before turning to Genny. “And this is the man I was telling you about—Python.”

He raises a brow.

Genny bows curtly, almost stiffly and too quickly, but Python doesn’t really mind—he’s never been one for such formalities.

“Pleased to meet you,” she softly says, doing her best to avoid eye contact with him before turning her eyes back to Silque. “I think I’ll leave now. I’m afraid I promised Mae that I would do something with her."

Silque smiles at her and nods her head, bidding her farewell before the smaller girl nearly tears off after another short bow. Python slightly chuckles.

“She’s somewhat shy,” Silque quickly says, turning back around, and he follows her as she begins to navigate her way through the maze of endless shelves.

“What are these books for?” he asks, and she stops momentarily, as if she had forgotten that he had them.

“Just to read,” she says as she takes them back from his hands, turning again to continue her trek. “I...don’t really have much planned for us to look over today.”

They make it out of the maze of shelves and head to a large and empty wooden table near the floor to ceiling windows, the world outside looking dreary as snow continuously falls. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen snow, let alone so much of it.

He takes a seat next to her in one of the old wooden chairs, wondering what exactly he’s to do if she doesn’t have anything for them to share.

For the last two days since their return to the Rigelian castle from Duma’s temple, he’s been spending his mornings with Forsyth, watching as he trains in one of the snowy yards, and the afternoons with her in the library, listening to whatever she has to say. She speaks of little things, the most mundane of things, anything that’s caught her attention or that she’s found interesting, though it hasn’t been heavy and it hasn’t been deep and Python isn’t sure if he should feel relieved about that anymore.

Occasionally, she speaks of Rigel, of how she and her mother lived in the capital until she was five, and then went on a pilgrimage from churches and monasteries to temples and shrines, until they had finally crossed into Zofia and she had been left behind at the priory at eight. Snowy days and cloudy days are normal here, she had told him, but other than that, she speaks very little of it.

He watches as she opens up one of the books, not saying anything as she slides the other in front of him, silently inviting him to join her. He slightly frowns—he’s always hated reading.

He pushes the book back towards her.

“Why don’t you read to me?” he asks her instead, and she snaps her head up to look at him, eyes wide. “I’d like it if you did.”

She sort of half laughs, half chokes, blinking rapidly in confusion as she turns to stare down at the book in front of her, then back up at him. He can only wonder what she’s thinking, wonder if she’s about to reject the idea out right. What a foolish suggestion.

“I—“she begins, before cutting herself off. He watches as she slowly takes back the book she had placed in front of him, before looking it over. She pauses, then speaks.

“Which would you rather hear?”

He smiles, chuckles, closes his eyes as he thinks for a moment then says, “Surprise me.”

So she picks, and she opens the old leather cover of it and she begins reading about some washed up Rigelian knight turned lord, and Python listens intently—for the first few pages, at least—before he allows himself to get caught up in the melodious tone of her voice, vague memories of waking up to humming in the medical tent plaguing his mind. His eye lids begin to droop.

Such sweet and flowery words for such a dull and boring story, he thinks, never quite getting the appeal of books and their fantasies.

“The Lord of the West cried for days after the death of his sister,” he hears her say, her voice soft but still slightly echoing throughout the nearly empty library. “When his faithful servant finally convinced him to rise once again, they set out on a journey for thirty days and twenty nine nights.”

He peeks open an eye, only then realizing that they had finally drifted shut. “Only twenty nine?”

“He died on the thirtieth night,” she replies, her eyes focused on the book. He simply nods in return.

“‘My lord,’” she continues, and he watches her face flick through emotions as she reads. “‘If only I could have spent more time with you,’ the vassal said with tears in his eyes. ‘Did you die of a broken heart?’”

Death by broken heart—he finds himself wanting to laugh at the thought. How silly.

“The lord’s vassal received no reply, and he knew then that he wasn’t strong enough. He had failed his lord when he had needed him most.”

His eyes drift shut again, he slouches down a little more in the tall wooden chair. He thinks Forsyth might like this story. 

“The vassal thought to throw himself into the river, to free his shoulders from the heavy burden that he had laid upon them himself.”

 _What a coward_ , Python thinks, but he figures that a story is just a story and it doesn’t matter much what he thinks.

“But something stopped him every time he had the thought. ‘Is it my lord?’ he wondered, not sure how he was to carry on. ‘Is it my gods?’”

What good were gods when they themselves were dead?

“The vassal had not the faintest idea, but he found it in himself to begin the journey back home, of thirty days and twenty nine nights.”

Her voice becomes a dull reminder of the waking world as he barely registers the feeling of his head lolling about.

“Each day he walked through his lord’s land of the West, and each night he spent alone beneath the stars. ‘My lord,’ he would whisper up to the night sky. ‘My pain must be nothing compared to what yours was.’”

The words soon become a low buzz in the back of his mind as he finally slips into the ever comforting arms of sleep, and he dreams.

He dreams of knights and vassals and silly little stories where they die for one another, not quite sure where the appeal in giving yourself up for someone else comes in, but for thirty days and thirty nights, he wonders if that’s enough.

To travel the land for thirty days and thirty nights—where might he end up?

 

 

 

“So have you decided what you’re gonna do about Gray?”

“Hush! Speak too loudly and the whole world will know of it before _I’m_ ready. You and your big mouth—“

Python chuckles, setting down his fork as he leans against the back of his chair, not quite sure how he ended up seated next to Clair at dinner.

“You’re own mouth will get you into trouble before I ever do,” he tells her.

She gives him a once over before picking at the food on her plate.

“If you must know, things between us are going fine. If my brother approves of him, then my parents, I’m sure we’ll be married soon.”

“Married?” he asks, somewhat shocked—he didn’t think things went that fast. “You’re kids.”

“And you’re an old man by comparison. Tell me, Python, do you have someone waiting for you at home?”

“Do you honestly care?”

“Not really,” she says, laughing as she takes a sip of whatever’s in her cup. “It’s simply nice to ask.”

“It’s nice to stay out of other people’s business.”

“Yet here you are in mine.”

If it wasn’t for who he was talking too, he might’ve laughed at the comeback, but he wants to give her no such satisfaction.

“Gray will become a lord and is a trusted friend of our new king, Python. My family was already high up in the aristocracy, but seeing as both Gray and I have fought side by side with Alm, my family’s titles mean nothing now.”

“Nothing, you say?” he asks flatly. There seemed no reason to feign interest now when he knew she would talk of things that bored him either way.

Clair gives him a prideful look. “I have earned my own rank within the new court of Valentia by fighting bravely. I _earned_ my title of Lady—it is no longer a birthright.”

He takes a bite of bread, wondering if it was too late to pretend he wasn’t feeling well and leave. Though he’s never been a member of high society, and though he would never want to be one, he can’t help but think that there is something naive to her statement—she _was_ a naive girl.

“I understand now why you all fought for nobility. It feels good, does it not? To know that you can be a lord now too? If you make me speak formally to you though, I’ll practically kill you—“

“Don’t worry,” he sighs, the interruption drawing a noise of confusion from her. “There’s no way I’m taking any sort of title.”

She raises a brow. “Not even a low ranking one like Lukas? A baron is a noble still,” she tells him, her voice growing excited. “Will you not even take land? A house? Everyone here will be rewarded handsomely for enduring such a grueling mission.”

But he simply shakes his head, not wanting any part of courts or nobility or knights, absolutely none of it. Clair didn’t get it—he doubts she ever would.

“Fine by me,” she says, shrugging her shoulders. “But do not come asking for a title once my husband and I are settled. We’ll be very powerful, you know.”

He chuckles, taking a sip of wine from his nearly empty cup. For the short time that he’s know her, she always had seemed ambitious—he just hopes that Gray will be able to keep up.

“Best of luck with that then, _Lady_ Clair.”

A devilish grin crosses her face and he downs the rest of his cup. He wasn’t drunk enough to deal with whatever that look meant.

“What’s wrong with you?” he warily asks, and the grin only grows wider.

“You called me _Lady_.”

Rolling his eyes, he scoffs at the absurdity of it.

“I said it _sarcastically_.”

“A Lady is still a Lady. I will accept this one as I would any other.”

“I didn’t—“

“Does this mean you’re ready to swear your undying loyalty to me? By doing so for Clive, you’ve already done so for me. We’re a package deal, you know.”

“I’m not swearing anything to you,” he retaliates, but her raised brow makes him feel no better.

“There’s another women that you’ve made such an oath to, that I’m sure of, but she isn’t waiting for you at home. Is she here tonight? I don’t see her at this table.”

“Clair,” he warns, but she puts a hand up to her eyes as if to block out the nonexistent sun as she looks around the large dining room.

“You know you can have a lord and still have a wife, yes? Or I suppose, in this case, you can have a lady and still have another waiting at home for you. Reverence and devotion are such nice things to have.”

“I’m _not_ getting married,” he says through gritted teeth, and he thinks that this must be payback for all of the times that he’s ever tormented someone in much of the same way.

“Have it your way,” she says with a shrug, stopping her search to bring her attention back to her food. “You’ll be invited to my wedding though, if you’d like to come.”

Never in a million years would he have thought he’d hear those words come from this girl. He frowns, unsure of what to say.

“I’ll invite her as well though,” she says then, and his frown deepens as he feels his ears heat up.

She flashes him a knowing and cocky smile, one that tells him that him that she would get her way.

“Maybe then you might like to change your mind.”

 

 

 

Moonlight pours in through the window to his room, and he momentarily thinks that he is back home at his parents’ house.

The feeling is soon gone though as he hears the rustling of clothes—he sits up far too quickly, as the world momentarily spins, as stone walls and stone floors and two fancy beds greet him and he remembers that he’s in one of the castle’s guest rooms with Forsyth—a demand from Clive that they have proper lodgings and get proper rest. Python certainly wasn’t going to say no to a warm bed.

Forsyth sits at the desk on the far side of the room with a piece of armor in his lap, and Python can tell by the withering candle that he’s been at it for some time.

“Don’t you think you ought to sleep?” he asks outright, and it amuses him when Forsyth slightly jumps in his chair.

“You’re awake,” he dumbly says, and Python snorts, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. People always seemed surprised.

“What are you doing up, Forsyth?” he asks instead, and Forsyth stares at the armor in his lap with a certain kind of intensity that Python finds morbid. It’s almost enough to make him laugh, but his friend’s silence keeps him from doing so.

Forsyth’s never been one for keeping quiet.

“I’ve just been thinking a lot.”

“Overthinking?”

“In a way.”

“When are you ever not overthinking things?”

He can see Forsyth shake his head, barely make out the slight smile that comes to his lips.

“Everything is going to change in the world once Sir Alm ascends the throne. Rigel and Zofia will rebuild themselves, but be united as one kingdom instead of two. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve had any sort of peace like that?”

Python shrugs, pulling his legs out from the covers to wrap his arms around his knees. “Too long for you, I would guess.”

“Too long for anyone, but it’s finally here,” Forsyth replies, sighing as he places the piece of armor onto the desk. He pauses for a moment, stares down at it longingly before turning to face Python with a very smug smile on his face.

“And _I_ get to be a knight for this one kingdom.”

Python can’t help but break into a smile as well once he sees his friend’s excitement, proud of the man for achieving what he had thought impossible not long before. He laughs then, thinking of how he had been proved wrong.

But the smiles and the laughter quickly fade as a new and more sober feeling threatens the air.

“I know you have no desire to be a knight.”

“No.”

“And there’s no way I can convince you to join me?”

“Nope.”

“So I guess we’ll finally have to part ways.”

“I guess so.”

Forsyth sighs again, running a hand through his hair. Python finds the sudden silence uncomfortable.

“We’ve been together for so long,” Forsyth laments, his voice slightly trailing off. “It’ll be... _weird_ for us to finally part.”

Python is the one to sigh this time as his eyes trail across his bed to the windowsill, the pale moonlight strong. He must’ve been too tired to draw the curtains before getting into bed.

“It’s not like one of us is _dying_ , Forsyth.”

“I know that, it’s just—I think I will just miss seeing you around every day, even with your gods awful attitude.”

Python finds it in himself to slightly chuckle before silence falls once again, and suddenly, his heart feels heavier than it ever has before. The most familiar thing in his life was about to be gone, and Python _still_ didn’t know what he himself would do. Forsyth’s been around for longer than Python can remember, and he feels that uncomfortable pang in his chest as he tries to push the thought out from his head.

“Will you not even consider it...because of her?”

Python’s head snaps back around to stare at his friend, only to see Forsyth’s own gaze focused on the hands in his lap, his thumbs fidgeting restlessly. The scene reminds him of what Forsyth looked like when he was receiving a harsh scolding from his father as a child—though Python is too confused to revel in the memory.

“What are you talking about?” Python asks, though he has an inkling as to where the man is going with this, and he doesn’t like it at all.

Far too dangerous territory for Python, far too messy.

“It’s been bothering me for quite some time now,” Forsyth says lowly, unable to meet his friend’s gaze. “You two...what is really going on?”

His mind feels as if it’s begun to spin, and Python does not want to answer for fear of giving Forsyth an answer he does not want to hear. 

“Nothing,” he says, and in his mind, he truly believes it. “You’re worried about nothing.”

Forsyth looks up finally; Python feels a jolt through his spine.

“I’m not worried, Python. I just wanted to know. I’m curious is all...”

“Curious about what? I don’t know how many times I’ve told you, I don’t—“

“Are you in love with her?”

Python finds his breath caught in his throat as the words leave his friend’s lips, as his own fall flat off his tongue, the heaviest silence yet filling the room. The tension is so thick that it makes Python feels sick, the only remedy an open window, but he doesn’t dare move as Forsyth stares him down, a very indecipherable look on his face.

The thought of such a thing, the use of such a word so freely and in such a way—Python’s always been more interested in the rough and physical, never the soft and emotional. He thinks that the latter are too messy, too personal, and it makes him feel gross just thinking of something so sweet.

He’s always hated sweets, always loved the bitter taste of alcohol—and he knows that she is quite the opposite.

Sure, he liked her, but the thought of her and of love? It doesn’t feel right—never has, never will.

Yet Python doesn’t know why his heart beats wildly, why he feels like he’s being accused of something awful, but after a moment more, he finds it in him to open his mouth and speak.

“No,” he says simply, deciding not to play dumb for once. “Never given her much thought.”

Forsyth gives a skeptical look, a small chuckle and the shake of a head, and Python frowns at the response.

“If that is the case then do not make her any promises that you cannot keep. She is young and you are more—“

“I know,” he grinds out, feeling like a child that’s been caught, but Forsyth only sighs wistfully, shaking his head once more.

“I like to think that I know you better than anyone,” Forsyth says, using the back of his hand to rub at his tired eyes. “You’ve never been good with matters of the heart.”

“And you have?”

Forsyth laughs then, the tension in the air dissipating almost as quickly as it had come, and Python lets out a small breath, relieved to find the air free once again.

“If you’re not to become a knight, then what will you do?”

Python shrugs, yawns, pulls the covers back over his legs and lies back down against the cool sheets. He could always figure it out tomorrow.

“Travel the land maybe. I’m sure that’s what a lot of these folk will do.”

“Is it what she will do?”

He rolls his eyes, tracing the cracks in the ceiling, watching the patterns jump out and make pictures for him in the dark.

“I don’t know what she’s going to do. Never really gave it much thought.”

 _Never really cared_.

Forsyth hums in reply and he hears the noise of metal scraping across the wooden desk as he must take the piece of armor into his lap again. He doubts sleep will favor his friend as it so often did him. 

“Maybe you should ask,” he hears him say, and he rolls over to face the window, the pale moonlight trickling in being no comforting feeling in the face of such uncertainty.

 

 

 

He takes her for a walk through one of the many castle gardens out of simple morbid curiosity—nothing more.

Snow still lines the trails, still sits on the top of bushes and dormant shrubs, making the stone walkways slick and wet, but she had happily agreed.

The air is cold and harsh, thin as he tries to breathe the ice into his lungs, as he wraps the large borrowed coat around him tighter and sticks his hands into his pockets, and he finds himself suddenly thankful that he had grown up in the ever warm Zofia. He would take the scalding summers any day over these harsh winters.

She doesn’t complain—though he doubts she ever would so openly. He watches her warily as they walk in silence at a slow and steady pace, careful to not slip on ice.

Lately she hasn’t been wearing that old headdress; when he had asked why she had simply said that it was in such a state beyond repair, far too many blood stains to wear it around so freely.

But he doesn’t mind; he’s always liked her better without it, always liked that choppy blue hair of hers—though he would never admit it.

“Your nose is red, Python.”

He’s pulled from his thoughts by her voice. He turns his gaze towards her.

“Huh?”

She crosses her arms across her chest as she keeps her eyes on the stone beneath her feet.

“Though you’ve bathed in a freezing river before, I know you hate this cold,” she says, slightly laughing. “You cursed everything you could think of when you did. Why are we out here?”

He shrugs, turning his attention elsewhere as he rubs at his nose with a sleeve. “Figured you could use some fresh air. You’ve been holing yourself up in that library for days. I don’t know what’s so interesting about a bunch of old books.”

“I just like to read,” she says simply, shrugging her shoulders beneath her own thick coat, her small frame nearly swallowed by it. “I didn’t get to relax all that much during this war.”

He scoffs, and he knows that he is a partial reason as to why.

“If you don’t like the library, you don’t have to spend so much time in there,” she teases, and he knows that she’s got a raised brow.

“The only person that has an aversion to reading as much as me is probably Forsyth,” he replies, peeking at her from the side of his eye. “He won’t look for me in there.”

“Then he would be surprised to learn that it is where we spend our time together,” she taunts, and he wants to curse her for saying something like that so unknowingly, so unaware of just what it means. She truly was naive in things outside her usual area of expertise.

He would be lying if he said that he had never _thought_ about it, about her in such a way. Only the blind would never know how pretty she is, and even then they would be taken by the sweet sound of her voice, the tender words tumbling out of her mouth. If that’s what Forsyth wanted him to admit then he gladly would. But love? Love wasn’t what he felt when he looks at her—then again, he wasn’t quite sure what it was supposed to feel like, though he doesn’t care to find out.

He lets out a small breath, shaking all thoughts from his head as she giggles, hiding her smile behind her sleeve.

“He knows,” he sighs, finally meeting her eyes. “He’s known for quite some time.”

She gives him a lopsided smile, her brows slightly furrow, and he’s suddenly unsure of what to say then. So he stops, turns to look at her as she does the same, a confused look growing across her face.

“I can’t wait to get out of this damn cold,” he complains, his teeth beginning to chatter. “I’ll stay in Zofia forever, so long as it stays warm.”

She laughs, shaking her head as she rubs her hands together.

“The snow is starting to melt, and the roads will be clear soon, but we could always go inside right now,” she chides, but he ignores it, looks her over.

“Aren’t you excited to go back home? Aren’t you sick of the cold yet? It’s gotta be warm on that island—“

The look on her face makes him stop. She turns her gaze to the bushes beside her; she rubs at the back of her neck awkwardly.

“I...won’t be returning to the priory on Novis,” she says, and Python isn’t sure what to think of that. “Or to Zofia.”

“You’re not...” his voice is quiet as it trails off, unsure of why exactly it’s shocking. “Where will you go?”

“Many people have been wounded and put out of their homes because of our war,” she says sadly, shaking her head. “I’ll...I am going to travel for a while and help where I can.”

She is young and just survived probably the worst thing she will ever have to go through in life—he’d think there was something wrong if she _didn’t_ want to see the world for what it is outside of her little island priory; it’s only natural that she does.

But that awful voice in his head laments that it’ll be harder to find her now. How those who roam are hard to track down, how most would rather _not_ be found, and he sighs because he _wants_ to find her out there _,_ though he realizes then that she is not his to find.

She awkwardly shifts her weight from foot to foot, hiding her hands behind her back, avoiding his gaze.

“What will you do, Python? It doesn’t seem like you have much interest in being a knight.”

He slowly shakes his head, his eyebrows furrowing. “No...Never been real interested in fighting.”

She gives him a look that’s so gentle that he immediately hates it, then hates himself for acting like a child.

“I’ll wander around for a while, see what Valentia has to offer a useless soldier like me.”

Her eyebrows furrow, her voice takes on more conviction. “You are not useless, Python.”

“No? Then maybe I’ll find someone else to burden.”

Her expression passes through shock, then an unfamiliar emotion that is hard for him to decipher. She looks down and away, her voice quiet when she speaks.

“You were never a burden.”

He chuckles, sighs, rubs a hand through his growing hair and thinks briefly of how he might need a haircut soon. He reaches out and taps the bottom of her chin; she looks up.

“Don’t worry so much,” he chides, dropping his hand to his side. “I’ll figure something out eventually.”

A small smile crosses her face.

“Then...you haven’t a clue as to what you’ll do?”

Her hopeful look confuses him, but he shakes his head anyways.

She blinks, her mouth opening and closing several times as if to speak before finally settling on laughing, her breath sending a cloud of vapor into the frigid air. She takes a step towards him; he tries not to think about stepping back.

What would Forsyth think of such a thing? Python no longer knew what to think himself—was this considered a matter of the heart if he can no longer feel it beating?

“You could always join m—“

“I’m cold now,” he interrupts, suddenly understanding and wishing that he didn’t. “I wanna go back inside.”

Ice fills his lungs finally, and he finds it hard to breathe with so much of it settled in his chest. He’s always hated the cold.

A look of confusion, then disappointment, crosses her face for a long moment before she finally nods, wrapping her arms around herself; he can tell by the way her eyebrows furrow once more that she’s having a hard time schooling her emotions, but he won’t let her ruin her time by trying to take his, he just can’t allow it.

“Okay,” she says stiffly, quickly turning on her heel to begin the walk back to the castle, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

Her small frame in that large coat looks almost pathetic now, and he lets out a small breath as she walks past him.

“Let us go then. Your lips were beginning to turn blue anyways.” 

He brings cold fingers up to touch them, and though he wishes he could, he can’t find it in him to glare at the back of her head like had so long ago.

 

 

 

 

His eyes flutter open, his cheek feels sore, and as his mind begins to clear the haziness of sleep, he finds that he is not alone.

Her short blue hair covers half of her sleeping face, her pale lips slightly parted as her soft breath leaves them, her eyes completely closed. Her head lies atop the pages of her open book, her fingers curling into the palm of her hands resting on the table.

He picks up his own head from the table and lets out a sigh, running his hands back through his hair as he looks around and remembers.

The library, the story, the snow. He looks towards the large window and the bright sunlight shining through it. The snow would melt soon, and the roads back to Zofia would soon be passable once again. Parting with everyone seemed to loom closer than he thought.

He yawns before leaning back against the chair, his gaze making its way back toward her sleeping form. He doesn’t think he’s ever actually seen her sleep, or look as peaceful as she does now.

Peace—her face is the epitome of it in this moment, and it’s then that he realizes just what exactly they were all fighting for. Not for nobility or money or even food on the table—though all of those were nice, it’s this that many of them would rather have.

To give her the ease of mind and the comfort to sleep without having to worry about enemies attacking or allies getting injured; it’s peace that he never realized was needed so much before.

If she never had to have blood on her hands or he have to wear armor again, if days marching to death turned into afternoons in musty old libraries, then he doesn’t think that peace is all that bad of an idea. It’s a comforting thought.

So comforting that he lies his head back down onto the table, and lets his eyes close as he can hear her soft breath escape those lips, the sound of peace in a time that barely knows it.

If peace was sleeping without interruption, then he thinks that maybe he doesn’t really mind it.

  

 

 

The grass at the border is much greener than he has ever seen, the air is cool but not cold, and the sky is bright and blue and nearly cloudless on a day that he feels should be dreary—a day he has almost been dreading.

The parting day of some of their company, of those who would stay in Rigel and those who would return to Zofia. Even if it was all technically one kingdom now, it seemed that regions would still be regions.

He can see the sluice gate come into view, and his feet feel as though they are made of lead as he trudges through the grass to that fateful place where he had once shot a little girl and angered her brother. It’s almost a fond memory as he sees Delthea ahead of him, skipping happily beside Luthier, no sudden bouts of her time from before seeming to bother her.

Many people that had come with Celica would be returning to Zofia the same way Alm’s army had come, one being the blond mercenary, pink haired mages, a man with the sharpest eyes and the sharpest sword, even another archer with hair the color of lavender. There wasn’t that many who would be staying in Rigel.

One who would be though was talking to that blond mercenary. Python had never really talked to him in the short time that he’s been there, never really felt a need to.

“You could tell her at any time,” a voice pipes up from beside him, and it takes all of his willpower not to push Forsyth down the hill right then and there. He hadn’t stopped badgering him about a certain topic since they had left the Rigelian castle. “Do it now before it’s too late.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Python tells him for what feels like the one thousandth time. “Leave me alone.”

“You don’t even know what you’ll do so why _not_ go with her?” he asks, his voice sounding more worried than Python knows it should be.

“Leave it be, Forsyth,” he says through gritted teeth, because frankly, he doesn’t care for her as much as everyone seemed to think.

At least, that’s what he tells himself—tries to _convince_ himself. There was nothing left that she could give Python, and laundry was no longer needed for him to repay his debt to her. Things were simply changing, and they would finally part.

The company stops at the bottom of the hill to rest, still a good distance away from the sluice gate, and Python feels nervous for some unknown reason. He isn’t sure if he should go looking for her or wait for her to come to him.

He doesn’t have to decide though as he feels Forsyth nudge him with his elbow, and he looks up to see her approaching, most of her blue hair and white robes hidden by a dull and gray traveling cloak, the hood pulled over her head. He holds his breath as she approaches and bows.

“Sir Forsyth,” she says, smiling up at him widely, and he watches as Forsyth bows in return. “Python.”

“Lady Silque,” Forsyth replies with a smile just as big. “It’s almost a little depressing to be parting ways after our time with you. You’ve been the biggest help to the Deliverance and we could never thank you enough.”

She seems to grow timid at the compliment, hiding her small laugh behind a hand as if to deflect the attention.

“I’m glad I could be of service to you all,” she says, glancing down at her feet, and it’s then that Python notices the small paper package in her hand. “And I’m sorry I will not be returning to Zofia with you.”

“Indeed,” Forsyth says with a sigh, giving Python a sidelong look. “We must stay in touch though. You must visit Zofia! Come to the castle and see all your old friends.”

She laughs again, her eyes scrunching up at his excitement.

“I will most definitely come back to Zofia when I can,” she promises. “I must see the new knights of this one kingdom. I heard they’re the best in all the land.”

Forsyth flashes her a grin. “You’ve heard right then, the best and the greatest. They’ve even—“

“If you feed his ego too much then he’ll never shut up again,” Python finally pipes up, and both turn to look at him, a happy silence falling over them.

Forsyth sighs, then addresses Silque.

“I will leave you two for a moment,” he says, taking a small step towards her.

Python can only roll his eyes as he watches Forsyth take her hand and bring it to his lips; he can only imagine what sort of chivalrous manners his old friend would display now that he was really going to be a knight.

“‘Til next we meet, Lady Silque,” he says, and he bows one final time before giving Python a stern look, finally turning to walk off and speak with others.

He hears her sigh quietly, turns to see her fidgeting nervously with the package in her hand. He clears his throat and she looks up so quickly that the hood of her cloak slips off of her head, revealing that short and choppy blue hair that he’s come to like.

“Are you ready to go home?” she asks, her voice sounding stilted as she looks up at him with wide eyes.

“Yes,” he nods, sticking his hands into the pockets of his coat, finding it weird to travel once again without needing to wear armor. “It’ll be nice to finally be home. Are you ready to stay here?”

She nods, turning her gaze down and away. “I’m traveling back with General Ezekiel and Tatiana to their village, and then I’ll begin from there.”

“And you’ll visit Forsyth when you can,” he muses, finding it in him to smile slightly at the thought, though it’s troubling when he sees her look up at him with an indecipherable expression.

“I’ll visit you too if you’d like,” she says with too much sincerity, and he feels a pang in his chest as he lets out a tiny breath, forcing himself to look away.

A creeping feeling was beginning to make its way into his thoughts. He doesn’t like it.

“Don’t go out of your way,” he says flatly, but she laughs lightly at it. He turns to look at her fully, deciding to push any and all threatening thoughts away.

“Are you traveling alone?” he asks her, too confused and unwilling to ask her much about her journey before they had left the castle. She looks up at him with concern. “Once you leave Tatiana and Zeke, I mean.”

“I...I’ll be fine. I’ve traveled alone before.”

“You were kidnapped before,” he reminds her, and she frowns. “Now that the big guys are out of the way, those nasty brigands and thieves will begin to come out of hiding.”

“A few brigands and thieves are better than an entire empire trying to start a war, don’t you think?” she asks with a raised brow, making him let out a scoff, but it’s then that he realizes he quite likes that look, quite likes the way that she teases.

He realizes that he doesn’t want her to leave.

He blinks, once again turning his attention away, needing to look anywhere but her—the grass, the sluice gate, the trees in the distance—lest he gets pulled in to an agreement that he knows will be the end of him.

Silly feelings and a silly girl; where did all of this come from?

“I’m thankful for your concern though,” she says, and she takes a step forward, causing him to stiffen up at the movement. Oh how _deplorable_ of a feeling was he only getting now—it was much too childish for his own tastes!

“I promise I will be _most_ careful,” she teases again, but her tone sobers up when he doesn’t say anything. “I’ll promise you anything if it makes you feel better.”

“Anything?”

She nods.

“Then promise that you won’t go anywhere near _that_ mountain,” he tells her, no need for a name. “I don’t like that place.”

She looks at him for a long moment before slowly nodding again, her slender fingers moving to push hair back behind her ear.

“If that’s what you want, then I promise. I’ll never go near there.”

“Good.”

“But,” she says, holding up a finger. “You must promise me something as well.”

He feels his stomach drop. He never was really good at keeping promises.

“What is it?”

A breeze blows through the trees and Python feels as if his own breath is being swept away with it as she gives him a very determined look.

“Promise that you will keep in touch with me.”

He already feels guilty just looking at her.

“That’s it?”

She smiles slightly and he knows that the first mistake he ever made to get himself into such a mess of emotions was going out to drink that bitter, bitter wine.

“I will not be happy if you do not, Python. You are one of my greatest friends from this war.”

It’s an easy enough promise for anyone else, but to him, it seems like asking for more pain than is necessary.

“I promise,” he lies, and he tries to push away every thought and feeling that crosses his mind when she looks up at him with that soft smile.

"You'll write to me...right?"

"Yes," he lies, but he doesn't want to talk to her if he can't see her.

"And you'll visit me, right?"

"Yes," he lies, but he doesn't want to see her if he can't stay with her.

She seems to think for a moment as she looks him over, possibly wondering whether his promise is sincere or not, but finally she opens her mouth, raising one hand in a grand gesture before closing it again, suddenly remembering the package in her palm. She looks at it, and then holds it out to him.

“What’s this?” he asks, warily taking it from her hands and turning it over in his own, moving to pick at the string holding it together.

“It’s a parting gift,” she says, dropping her arms to her sides. “But do not open it until after I leave.”

It’s rectangular and thin, light enough that he can hold it with only one hand, but he drops it to his side as she requests, putting his curiosity on hold for the time being.

“I didn’t know we were doing gifts,” he says flatly, but she laughs anyways and he already knows how bittersweet the feeling is to know that he will never hear it again.

“There was no need for gifts. I just...wanted to give you something so that you might remember our time together.”

He lets out a small sigh—he doesn’t think he could ever forget it.

A million ideas as to what such a gift to have such a meaning could be run through his head, curiosity much stronger than he thought it could ever be.

Too kind, too likable, and he had fallen right for it.

He wants to give her something too, so that she might remember him like this, but he has nothing but himself to give and he knows what an awful gift that would be.

So he stands there dumbly and looks at her and watches as she grows uncomfortable under his intense gaze, shifting her weight from foot to foot as he tries desperately to think of something worthy of her to say.

Someone calls her name and she turns to look behind her. Tatiana and the general wait atop the hill and Python feels the urge to tell them to leave, to let him have her instead. But he doesn’t.

“I must leave now,” she says, and he can hear the reluctance in her voice. “I...I—“

Her struggle for words stops as he places a hand atop her head, her eyes growing wide.

“Be careful out there,” he says, giving her a sad smile. “Don’t take in any drunkards, no matter how handsome, alright?”

He watches her blink rapidly, listens to her breath get caught in her throat as a tight smile crosses her lips and he also realizes then that maybe it hurts her to leave just as much as it does him.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” she says with a laugh, her voice sounding tight, and as soon as he pulls his hand away, she bows. “Goodbye, Python.”

He bows in return. “Goodbye, Silque.”

Her smile wavers, she averts her gaze, and it’s the last he sees of that pretty face of hers as he watches her turn and run up the hill to meet Zeke and Tatiana. She doesn’t turn back to look as he watches the three of them disappear into Rigel, and his heart feels heavy for only a moment more before he looks at the package in his hands.

To open it now or to wait until he was completely alone—he’s not quite sure what he wants to do.

But he does have a different idea as to what he _will_ do. If she was helping those who were put out by the war, traveling lands that would once again be burdened by brigands and thieves, then why couldn’t he help out, pull his own weight out there? If there were villages to be plundered then there were villages to be saved, and he wouldn’t mind taking his frustrations out on a few of those thieves.

Curiosity gets the better of him. He pulls apart the string and rips open the package.

He smiles as he looks at the book in his hands, a story about a washed up lord and his vassal who would travel the lands of the West for thirty days and only twenty nine nights. Forsyth might’ve liked the story but it was now _his_ to keep.

He opens the cover of it, not at all surprised to see her fine handwriting splashed against the first yellowing page, a note that hadn’t been there before written for him there.

_Python,_

_Before you start assuming, I did_ not _steal this. Alm gave me permission to take it from the castle library so that I may give it to you, but knowing you, you’ll tell everyone that I stole it anyways, and yet I don’t really mind._

_I’d like it if you read this story every so often, just to refresh your memory, and I’d like it if you think of me as you do. Our time together was important to me, and I learned many things I don’t think I could have at the priory on Novis. You taught me something very special, but I will keep what exactly it is a secret until next we meet. I hope that is incentive enough for you to keep the promise I made you take, which if you don’t, you know I will be very upset. How will you make it up to me then?_

He laughs as he reads the note over twice, lingering on her name at the bottom of it, how her smooth handwriting would contrast starkly against his own horrible penmanship. He closes the book, slips it into his bag, and makes his way over to where Forsyth awaits him with a very disappointing look.

_How will you make it up to me then?_

Such a question from such a girl, but he can only imagine the look on her face at to what he might reply. Surprise? Confusion? Contempt?

No, such looks never suited her like the one of amusement did, and he knows then how she might look when he says something she might like to hear.

How _would_ he make it up to her?

He chuckles to himself.

_I know you like sweets._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a lot I have to say about these two and why things end like they do but its too much to contain to this little author's note box. I'm not sure how many of you are actually happy with this ending LOL but I wanted to keep MOST of it implicit (it got a little cheesy towards the end). But I want to know what your favorite chapter or scene was! Mine was the first chapter because I think it was the best written, probably because I sat on it for so long, and it was the closest to the original 3 chapters idea that I initially had for this.  
> For the epilogue fic though....I wanna know if yall think it should actually be romantic or not.....it should come out around the usual time (3-4 weeks), but I hope many of you will come back to read that one!  
> Anyways, if you wanna talk further about this, or talk headcanons, scream at me, whatever, I finally opened up the ask box @lunariaans on tumblr. There's nothing on it atm and its all default themes and whatnot because its not my main blog and there's irl people that follow me on my main blog that I would rather NOT know about my fics LMAO, but the ask box is open. Feel free to come and tell me that you wanna break into my house ;)  
> ANYWAYS I LITERALLY CANNOT THANK EVERYONE WHO BOTHERED TO READ THIS AND/OR LEAVE SUCH NICE COMMENTS ENOUGH!!!!!!! I love you all, I hope you all enjoyed this, and thank you so so so so so so SO much for taking out a small part of your day to read this little fic. THIS ONE'S FOR YOU B'S!!!!!!


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